Chapter 2

© Copyright 2007 by Elizabeth Delayne



Barton’s store always seemed to amaze Rachel. Despite the fact that it seemed small from the outside, the shelves were stocked from floor to ceiling. Each shelf was organized with items stack neatly, taking up the maximum amount of space. There were rows and rows of can goods, shelves of small boxes of tools and ammunition, a few shelves of books and other shleves that lined the floor to display cloth, pans and other household items.

Rarely did the items even seem remotely out of place.

As Rachel watched, Millie sighed gratefully as she sank down on the stool behind the counter. The store had cleared out as people headed home as afternoon chores and dinner preparations began.

“Long day?” Rachel asked as she watched the woman hold a hand to her back.

“New shipment,” she said. “Not nearly as interesting as your day. It was Matthew’s first day.”

“Yes.”

“I want to hear all about it.”

She smiled, “It was fine. I think he thought of it as a game. Do what the big kids do. Besides, he knows if he gets into trouble, he won’t be coming back,” she frowned. “He might not be coming back anyway.”

“Ah ... this might be those words you exchanged with James.”

“How would you know about that?”

“The children leave school before you do. They come in talking. Then one tells his mother, the mother comes in here. She talks. People have there eye out for James. He’s a good man. And they see you. You’re the town school teacher. You’re a good woman–so they say. You must be if those fine men on the school board hired you.”

Rachel blushed and tried not to picture the man in question–and remember how handsome he was or seemed in that ruggedly strong sort of way.

Tall. Strong.

So very ....

“For goodness sakes!” she said as she shook her head—and tried to banish the thought. “He’s still obviously grieving over his wife.”

“She died over a year ago. He has a young son to see too,” Millie laughed as Rachel grimaced. “I’m not saying you two should go out and get hitched. One must get to know the other first. Or one might, but things aren’t always so clear. Last year Widow Anderson married the tall prospector none of us knew, but she had children ... and he wanted a wife. There was little of the flowery things one would associate with courtship.”

Rachel just couldn’t picture it—James acting as her twin sister’s betroathed had done; sitting, talking, bringing small, frivolous gifts.

And that’s how people saw them? When Rachel groaned, Millie only laughed all over again. “Relax. I’m just telling you what’s going through people’s minds.”

“That’s good to know.”

“People look out for each other, Rachel. And if they like you, they’ll only look out for you too. It’s good to be considered a woman who’s good enough for a good man.”

“Well, good woman or not, the man needs a little talkin’ too. And not by me. It wasn’t my words that will keep Matthew away from the school. It’s the man himself. Whatever his problem is. He was the one who said he didn’t want Matthew to come back.”

“Which was why you argued back.”

“Yes. I shouldn’t have, I know.”

“Maybe ... maybe not.”

“I had the same argument with myself.... Do you think Mr. Forester—James is right? That my influence on Matthew may be a terrible thing?”

“Oh, posh. They don’t come to town as a family enough for much of anything else. James hides away on his ranch like a lost soul. Besides, Matthew needs a woman in his life.”

“But I’m not his mother.”

“Neither am I, but he’s never accused me of trying to be one. And it was James who put that doubt in your head. Don’t doubt yourself for doing what’s right—if not just because the grandfather asked the favor of you.”

Rachel sighed. “Matthew’s such a cute little boy to have such a bear for a father.”

“Oh, James has his own way. If you could have known Anna, you would understand. The two were just ... meant to be. They were both so ... light. Happy. He’s changed. Maybe we all have to at some point.... Well. I meant to tell you. A shipment of books came in. Would you like to go back and take a look?”

Rachel laughed. “Millie, you’re my own personal library. And I’m so very grateful.”

And surely, she would rather have the town librarian as a friend then the town matchmaker.



Later, Rachel walked home with a new book ... or a used book, sent from a Boston bookseller. Mille let her borrow the used books. It was a bit of salvation to hold something new to her in her hands. She’d only been able to bring a limited supply of her books west, and most of those were books for class, many of them from her father’s library and not her own.

There was so much life in a book. So much ... else.

Like coming west. In leaving Charleston, she had opened up her own book. Found her own real life adventure.

She smiled and stopped on the wooden sidewalk and opened the book. The first few words chilled her.

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

How ... eerie.

She looked up and looked around, seeing nothing but the town. But there was something odd. Something cold.

Maybe it was the book ... the story itself.

She closed the cover and hurried home. There, she made the decision to wait until Saturday to start the book ... just in case it was the story that gave her the chills.

She didn’t need nightmares to make the Peterson’s question her ability to teach.

She’d already had enough judgement for one day.

* * *

James waited until that evening to approach his father. Matt was inside playing with his slate. Playing school of all things. He was just a little boy and he was already dreaming of growing up.

Of prim and proper little school teachers with pretty green eyes.

He frowned. He could still see the way his son had clung to her, as if ... as if she was his mother. It wasn’t something his son was read for.

He found his father in the barn pitching hay. James grabbed the other pitch fork and moved in beside his father.

“Matthew won’t be going back to that school tomorrow.”

“That school?” Gregory asked. “You make it sound like sent him to one of those Prisoner of War Camps.”

“I know what you’ve done, Pa. And it isn’t going to work.”

“And what have I done?” Gregory stabbed his pitchfork into the hay and faced off with his son. “He was smilin this morning when I dropped him off at that as you call it. He’s my grandson.”

“And he’s my son. I won’t have you using him to get to—“

”To get to what? His happiness?”

“To Miss. Lynne.”

“To Rachel? You think this is about Rachel. I’m not trying to replace his mother.” Gregory narrowed his gaze. “Or your wife.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I’m not doing it for you,” Gregory snapped, and picked up his shovel. “I’m doing it for him. You’re destroying that boy James. He doesn’t have a mother, but he should have a father. You’re gruff and short and you ignore him. He just needs something more.”

James watched his father dig into the hay, turn and toss it into the stall. He was angry and he was aging. He’d lost three sons, two daughters and his own wife to the war.

And then an daughter in law to the west.

“All right, pa,” James said as he stepped forward. He reached out, stopped his father from stabbing the pitchfork into the hay again.

Both men held onto the wooden handle and faced off with each other. Both a little angry.

But Gregory–Lord knew–was too old for such tantrums.

“He’ll go. I’ll take him myself. Just don’t ...”

Die, he thought. Not yet. He wasn’t ready ... he couldn’t take losing his father.

He drew in a deep breath. “Just don’t push anything else on us.”

“Fine,” Gregory said, but he released the pitchfork, “if you work it up into your system to talk to that boy once in awhile. He lost his mother, James. He doesn’t need to loose his father, too.”

Gregory turned and started to walk away, his age showing the way he moved.

“Pa,” James said quietly and waited for his own father to turn back around. “He needs his Grandpa, too.”

We both need you.

”And for the record, the agreement Ms. Lynne and I made was for one day a week ... it’s not to much to as of either of them. Or me.”

As Gregory headed back to the house, James leaned against the barndoor frame and tugged the photograph from his pocket. Anna’s face, a rare solemn pose. She’d rarely looked as serious as she did in the photograph. It hadn’t captured the sparkle or the depth of her eyes, but he could run his ringer over the line of her cheekbone, touched her nose, and remember.

The memories were all he had left.


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