Montana Rose (7 page)

Chapter 13

Saturday, blessed Saturday. Rose shifted in the bed, stretching her body, reveling in the fact that today she needn’t be up preparing for another day in the classroom. Today, she could lie in bed and do nothing. She could go for a long walk, she could borrow Wisteria’s horse and buggy and go for a drive, maybe even a picnic, she could
—t
he list was endless.

Laying there, she reviewed the past week. It had been a week of small successes. Mid-week, she had introduced her plan of bringing alive the history of everyday objects, starting with the kerosene lamp.

“Students,” she said to the waiting class. “Do you know what this is?”

“Sure,” one of the boys replied. “A lamp.”

“Yes, you’re partially right. But what kind of lamp is it?”

Heads turned, seeking the answer from each other.

Rose gave the class several minutes and when nothing came forth, she said, “It’s a kerosene lamp.”

Several grins followed the pronouncement. “We knew that, Miss Bush. We just thought you had some special kinda lamp there.”

“Well, it is special. We have the luxury of the kerosene lamp because of Mr. Abraham Gesner. Mr. Gesner distilled coal and produced a clear liquid. Mr., or we should say Dr. Gesner, was both a geologist and medical doctor.” Rose hesitated before continuing. There wasn’t a sound in the room. Even Tory was giving her his full attention.

“Dr. Gesner poured the liquid into an oil lamp with an absorbent wick. He then lit the lamp and guess what?”

A hand in the back of the room rose.

“Yes?”

“The lamp worked?”

“It sure did. It gave off a beautiful, pale yellow flame. He named the liquid kerosene, which means wax oil. Some of you may know it by another name
—
coal oil.”

Heads nodded and hands shot up.

“I know all about coal oil. Once my dad cut his hand, and he put coal oil in the cut.”

“What happened?”

“The cut healed,” the boy said importantly.

“My grandma uses it for her arthritis. She mixes it with fat then rubs it on. It sure stinks.”

“I’ll bet it does,” Rose laughed.

“Yeah,” another voice piped up, “and you can mix fat and coal oil together, tie it in a dishtowel, and then wrap that around your throat. ‘Course you get big red blisters if you leave it on too long.”

The enthusiasm was infectious as child after child raised their hand and contributed. All except Willy. He appeared totally disinterested.

“Ma makes us take a lick of molasses to coat our tongue. Then we wash down a spoonful of kerosene.”

“Whatever for?” Rose couldn’t keep the alarm out of her voice.

“Throat infection.”

The home remedies seemed endless. The students weren’t the only ones that had learned something today.

“Please clear off your desks and let’s get ready for an art project. Oil lanterns were used many, many years ago in temples.”

Willy’s hand shot up.

“You shouldn’t be telling us about them things, Miss Bush. God wouldn’t like us talking about heathen religions.”

God, or your mother?
But to Willy, they were probably one and the same.

“Willy, I hear your concern, but I intend to continue with the lesson. Thank you for your input.”

Rose swallowed the lump in her throat. There was no doubt Willy would rush home and tattle to his mother about Miss Bush’s blasphemous lesson.

“Today, we’re going to make Chinese lanterns.” Rose took down one of the books from a pine shelf. Opening it, she passed around the picture of a glowing Chinese lantern.

“You will have to share the scissors, so let’s work in teams of four. I’ve made a paste of flour and water. No eating it,” she admonished, making her face stern. “When finished, we will hang the lanterns around the classroom. I’ll give each team some material to be cut into decorations. Because they are flammable, we won’t be able to put candles in them so be creative, use your imagination.”

For the rest of the morning, Rose was kept hopping from team to team as paper was cut into strips, edges glued together, handles added, and material cut into imaginative designs and glued onto the paper.

Laughter and banter echoed as each team had no doubt their lantern was the best.

Rose gave a worried glance at Willy who had refused to join any team, stating he wasn’t going to make something heathens used. He sat at his desk, head bent over a book, oblivious to the laughter and happy chatter.

But Tory’s participation wiped out any disappointment felt by Willy’s superior attitude. His ideas were sound, and before long, the other three on his team acknowledged him as the unclaimed leader. Tory was an artist and flower after flower was drawn on the material to be cut out and pasted on their lantern. Rose recognized several of the flowers having seen them growing in yards and in the countryside. The details were exceptional.

However, her pleasure was short-lived. Again, after the lunch break, Tory’s desk was empty. She’d been so sure he’d return since experiencing overwhelming success and acceptance. His team’s lantern was quickly acclaimed the best. Was there nothing that could reach this withdrawn boy?

That question was still buzzing around in Rose’s head when she swung her legs off the bed. The question of what to do on this fine Saturday was settled. She’d borrow Wisteria’s buggy and go on a picnic. She would not spend the day brooding over the past week. There had been no repercussion from the school board, so maybe Willy’s tattling fell on deaf ears.

Don’t be foolish, Rose. Mrs. Backley will believe every word Willy tells her. It’s only a matter of time and the school board will come calling. So today will be a fun day. A day of relaxation. A day free from worries. A day to drive in the country and enjoy the sweet smelling air, but most of all, to enjoy my freedom. I’ve proven I can teach. This past week was evidence of that. But it still isn’t what I want to do with my life.

Rose bustled about the kitchen, slicing bread and smearing it with elderberry jam. She poured some lemonade in a jar, then grabbed a handful of cookies and wrapped them and the bread in a dishtowel. Then she chuckled at her assembled lunch. Bread, jam, and cookies. Perfect.

The sun was warm on Rose’s back as she stepped down from the buggy and looped the reins around the brake handle. She grabbed the lunch from the wagon seat, reached in under it for the jar of lemonade, and jauntily took off for the beckoning woods. A straw hat, decorated with a spray of pansies bobbed on her head.

As she entered the shaded woods, peace embraced her. This was a perfect idea
,
a perfect way to spend Saturday. And if she felt a niggling of guilt for not being at home planning next week’s lessons, she quickly shoved it away.

So intent was she on looking for the ideal spot for her picnic, she almost missed the flutter of movement and the quiet voice riding the slight breeze. Rose paused, then stealthily tiptoed forward.

Crouched at the base of a large tree was a boy, gently brushing back pine needles and dirt as he murmured pleasure at whatever lay beneath them. Rose stretched her neck, but couldn’t see anything.

She must have made a sound for he jumped to his feet and whirled around, facing her.

Tory.

He glared at her and shifted his body so as to hide whatever he’d unearthed.

“I
-
I’m sorry, Tory. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“What do you want?” His lip curled as he bit out each word.

“Why, nothing. I don’t want anything. I’m on a picnic and
—
”

Rose’s words died. Tory’s expression was unrelenting.

“These are my woods,” he said defiantly.

Rose bent her head. “Really? Well”—she held up her food-filled hands—“this is my picnic. If you would be willing to share your woods, I would be willing to share my picnic.”

Conflicting emotions ran across his face.

“I have molasses cookies,” she offered. “Molasses cookies and lemonade.”

“Guess I could,” he mumbled. “But watch where you’re stepping.” With that, he moved to the side revealing a patch of delicate flowers crouched at the base of the tree. Each tiny bloom perfect in varying shades of pink and purple.

“Wood violets.” Rose moved toward them. “They’re beautiful. So tiny and perfect. How on earth did you know where to look for them? They’re rarely seen.” Whispering, Rose crouched down in front of the flowers.

Tory knelt beside her, his earlier animosity forgotten.

“They’re also called Prairie Blue Violets,” Rose said. “I have a cream pitcher with them painted on it. See their leaves”—she gently touched one delicate leaf with the tip of her finger—“they’re shaped like a heart. They love moist or wet areas. That’s why they’re snuggled against the base of this tree where the dirt is shaded from the sun and remains moist.”

“How do you know so much?” There was a tinge of earlier resentment in the question.

“I read. There’re books on plants, Tory.”

“Wouldn’t matter.” He shrugged and looked away. “I’m too dumb to read.”

Chapter 14

Jesse squinted in the afternoon sun, questioning his decision to see what allure the woods had for Tory. The sound of voices filtered through the leaves, muffled by the oak brush and pines. He crept toward them, stopping short when hearing a woman’s angry voice.

“Tory, I have a lot of patience, but I have absolutely no patience for remarks of that sort. You are not dumb. Do I have to yell those words at you to get you to believe them?”

Jesse carefully parted the brush hiding him and saw Rose with her hands on her hips, her face inches away from Tory’s.

“Answer me, Tory,” she demanded.

“What do you want me to say?” Tory demanded. “You want me to say I’m not dumb? Well, I won’t say it, Miss Bush. I am dumb. I’m one of the oldest boys in the classroom, and I can’t read as well as the younger kids. So what do you say to that?” he asked belligerently, daring her to respond.

“I’d say that’s mighty convenient for you.”

“Huh?”

“I said that’s mighty convenient for you. You can miss school, only come when your brother drops you off, leave at the first opportunity, then whine that you’re dumb.”

He glared at her. “I don’t whine.”

“No? Well, what do you call it?”

“Telling the truth,” he snarled.

Rose ignored the hurt in his eyes. If making Tory mad was the only way to reach him, so be it.

“Truth.” She gave a false laugh. “Well, maybe I’m wrong.”

Tory’s eyebrows rose.

“Yes, maybe you are right. You’re dumb.”

“Told ya.”

“Hiding out here in the woods, afraid to face people. Afraid of the classroom.”

“I am not afraid,” he bellowed.

Jesse tensed. Rose had gone too far. He started forward to make his presence known, only to freeze at Tory’s next words.

“I don’t hide out,” he said softer.

“What?” Rose leaned toward him.

“I said I don’t hide out.”

“No? Then what do you do all afternoon when you’re not in school
learning to read?” she taunted.

Tory didn’t answer.

Rose let the silence stretch between them.

Jesse held his breath. Should he step forward
,
end this inquisition?

As if having reached a major decision, Tory pressed his lips together and reached for a canvas bag lying to the side of the tree.

“Here.” He thrust the bag at Rose.

Rose’s fingers were trembling as she reached into the bag and drew out several sheaths of paper.

She glanced at them, then at Tory, her eyes widening with each page.

Flowers. Intricately drawn flowers. Front, backs, side views, every detail perfection. At the bottom of each page was a name
—
Star, Bell, Sun
—
simple names depicting the likeness.

“You drew these?” Rose asked quietly.

Tory nodded. His eyes searched hers, as if fearfully awaiting the verdict. “Most of them grow here in the woods.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Shoulders hunched, he made to grab them from her hands. “Give ‘em back. I shouldn’t have showed them to you. You probably think
—
”

“I probably think these are beautiful. I’ve only seen such meticulous drawings in a botany book.” Slowly, she rifled through the papers, randomly pausing, murmuring praise as her finger gently traced a flower’s outline.

Rose lowered herself to the ground. “Sit down, Tory. I’ve a picnic to share and”—she smiled at his drawings—“we’ve got a few decisions to make.”

“Yeah, like what?” Tentatively he sat opposite her, a protective expression on his face for the papers she held firmly in her hand.

“Like how you and I are going to proceed from here. And how we’ll begin private reading lessons.” She handed him a slice of bread and jam. “In fact, we’ll begin tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” he said derisively.

“Yes, and that’s what makes it a perfect day to start.

“I got work to do. Chores.”

“I’ll talk to your brother.”

“Don’t do that!” he exploded. “I don’t want him to know. You can’t tell him. He’ll be mad ‘cause I’ve been leaving school. Besides, he’ll think I’m a sissy, spending my time drawing flowers. If you tell him, I’ll tear ‘em to pieces. The rest, too.”

“You’ve more?”

He shrugged. “A box full. Ma saw that I had paper. She helped me hide them from my pa. But I will
,
I’ll tear them up
,
I swear.”

“We’ve a problem, Tory. I won’t lie to your brother. If he asks me about school, I’ll have to tell him the truth. Of course, if you started staying until school is dismissed for the day, well then I wouldn’t have anything to tell, would I?”

Jesse almost wished he hadn’t come upon the two. He had thought forcing Tory to attend school would solve the reading problem. He had no idea Tory stayed only long enough to sneak away. Why hadn’t he looked deeper?

Flowers? Drawing flowers? He wouldn’t pretend to understand. Ranching was all Jesse knew. It was something he loved. And being part owner in the Rocking R made all the hard work worthwhile. But flowers? Why would a boy want to spend his time hiding in the woods, drawing flowers, even if the drawings were as good as the pretty teacher thought? Jesse put aside the questions. It didn’t matter why. If it brought any measure of happiness to Tory, then he would help his brother in any way he could.

The voices continued.

“I won’t stay and read with the babies. You can’t make me.”

“Of course you won’t.”

“Huh?”

“We’ll have private reading lessons until you can read as well as others your age. But you have to attend school all day. Either that, or I’ll have a visit with your brother.”

“That’s cheating.”

“No, it’s not. It’s trading. I’ll trade you silence, and you’ll trade me learning to read and attending school.”

“Don’t see how it’ll work,” he mumbled around another bite of bread.

“Leave that to me. We’ll start our lessons tomorrow. You can tell Jesse that I’ve made a special request for you to help me with a project. That won’t be lying. It is a project. A project to help a future botanist learn to read.”

“A botanist? You keep using that name. Don’t know what it is,” he mumbled.

“It’s what you are, Tory. A botanist is a person who studies plants, their life and growth. They also classify plants, that is, they learn their Latin names and sometimes even get to name a plant.”

“A botanist.” He let the word slowly roll from his tongue. Then he raised his head and gave Rose one of the first smiles she had ever seen on his face.

“You think I could be one?”

“I think you are one. Of course, you’ll need further education. And”—she grinned—“you’ll have to be able to read about the plants.”

He nodded, his eyes alive with excitement. “You-you think I can?” Doubt filled his words.

“I know you can. I won’t tell you the real names of the flowers you’ve drawn, but I have a book that will. You’ll have to read it for yourself.”

“Miss Rose”—he squared his shoulders—“you’ve got a trade.” And he held out a sticky hand.