Romancing the Schoolteacher (12 page)

“Maybe fewer hurt feelings on the part of men, but certainly not women.” She yanked her Bible from his grasp, thrust open her door and slammed it behind her.

He didn't try to stop her. How had this blown so out of proportion? His marriage to Doreen had been a good one in spite of how it started. True, he'd never loved Doreen the way he loved Bridget, but he had cared for her, treated her well and been a good husband to her. What more did a woman want?

From the safety of the porch, he stared out at the rain pouring down, making rivulets on the muddy ground.

Bridget's question came back to him.
So have you already found a husband for Dora?
Until today, he hadn't thought about Dora ever getting married. She was his baby girl. But someday…someday she would marry. Would he choose her husband?

No.

He wanted Dora to have love. But could he watch her heart get broken by some careless man? That would break
his
heart. Wasn't that what made arranged marriages so perfect? No one got a broken heart.

And also…no one experienced this joy and happiness and hope for the future he had with Bridget.

Love was the most wonderful feeling…as well as the most painful when Bridget was angry at him.

He wanted Dora to have this elation of love even if it meant she risked heartbreak. He would not arrange a marriage for his daughter. But neither would he feel guilty for his own arranged marriage. The years had been good, and he had two beautiful children whom he loved dearly.

If she couldn't understand, maybe she wasn't the woman he thought she was.

He stepped off the porch, and the rain soaked him through in less than a minute. He didn't care.

T
hough the rain had let up the following morning, clouds still hung heavy in the sky. Lindley walked his children to school. But once the building was in sight, he held back and sent them ahead. He watched from a stand of trees as Gabe and Dora approached the other children.

Bridget stood on the stoop, monitoring her students. She wore a striking blue-and-black-striped dress. Not only did his heart ache emotionally, he had a physical pain in the center of his chest as if someone were squeezing the life out of him. Even breathing hurt.

He hated her being angry at him, but he didn't know how to make her understand. Make her see that there was nothing wrong with his first marriage. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, but he didn't know what he'd done. What was he sorry for? Sorry she was angry at him? Sorry she disagreed with him? Sorry she was unreasonable?

Just sorry.

He wished he'd never brought up his arranged marriage. When Bridget had asked if he loved Doreen, he should have just said yes. Then they never would have disagreed. And she wouldn't have gotten upset at him. And he wouldn't be stumped as to exactly what he needed to apologize for.

If Doreen hadn't taken ill and died, he would have been happy to be married to her the rest of his life. To grow old with her. But now that he knew the joy of love, he realized he had only been content. But content wasn't bad, was it?

Had he been wrong to enter into the marriage?

No.

Regardless of the reasons, he'd wanted to marry Doreen, and she him. Regardless of their fathers arranging it, they had both wanted it. Regardless that the practice was out of date.

Regardless.

Then why did he feel so guilty?

Bridget raised her head, noticed Gabe and Dora, and looked around, presumably for him. Just as her gaze landed on him, he turned and limped toward Mr. Keen's office. Until he knew what to say, he couldn't face her. He would likely only make matters worse.

The mine manager, sitting behind his desk, looked up. “These clothes suit you better. Did you learn all you needed to for the investors?” He stood and thumbed through a stack of papers on a low shelf behind him.

“Not quite. I need to review the ledgers to see if I can find out why the profit margin isn't what they think it should be.”

“How far back you planning to look?”

“I don't know. Until I discover the problem. Or if the problem lies in the investors' greed.”

As Mr. Keen sat again, he waved his hand toward a shelf across the room. “Last year's ledgers are over there. There's one for accounts receivable and payable. Another for how deep we're excavating, the amount of limestone taken out of the ground and amount of quicklime produced. A third for supplies, workers and miscellaneous.”

He lifted papers on his desk and peeked under them. “This year's are someplace on my desk.” But after shuffling several piles around, he opened one desk drawer after another. “Or in the desk. And the ledgers for other years are around here someplace.”

How could the man ever find anything in this office?

Lindley glanced around. There was no space for him to work or even set up a small table. Papers, books, rock samples, surveying equipment and
stuff
scattered over every surface in the room. Desk, shelves and even the floor. “Could I take the ledgers home to review them?”

“No need, in fact. I'll be gone a few days. Coming back Thursday.” He stood and rounded the desk. “Make yourself at home. If you have a mind to straighten anything up, won't bother me. Too much work for just one man.” He grabbed a satchel, stuffed in some papers and rocks, and left.

The manager seemed to be in a hurry.

Lindley glanced around at the chaotic disarray. No wonder the accounts were off. Who could keep track of anything in this mess?

Where to start? Excavate for the ledgers and ignore the mess? Or clean up and hope he unearthed everything he needed?

He walked around behind the desk and sat. Even with the ledgers, he wouldn't be able to work at this desk. If he straightened the surface, he could try to ignore the rest of the room.

He made one pile of surveying reports, another of incoming bills, one of orders for quicklime, the company's orders for wood and other supplies, and several other piles. He came up with only one ledger for the current year, accounts receivable and payable. In a “pile” all its own sat the list of grievances he'd written. It had been buried.

The door opened, and Brady walked in. “Oh, sorry. I didn't know no one was in here.” He held two large, thin books clutched in his beefy hand.

“Mr. Keen isn't here. Are those company ledgers?”

Brady held them up. “I have to put in figures and such. Part of my job.”

Lindley held out his hand. “I'll take them.”

Brady hesitated and then handed them over. “You'll tell Keen I brung them back?”

“Of course.” He set them with the other one.

The foreman crossed the threshold to leave.

Before he closed the door, Lindley said, “Brady?”

The man turned back.

“The company recently hired a boy named Troy Morrison. You know him?”

Brady nodded. “Tom's boy.”

“Send him here straightaway.”

Brady frowned. “He's down below.”

“Well, bring him up.”

Brady huffed a breath and left. The foreman hadn't been happy that Lindley was now over him, and he had to take his orders.

Lindley stepped over clutter. He opened and closed several filing-cabinet drawers until he found empty folders. Grabbing a handful, he put each pile of papers into a folder and stacked them on the corner of the desk. Then he gathered up last year's ledgers from the shelf, dusted off the rock grit and put them under this year's. He would work backward.

He opened the accounts receivable and payable and scanned the headings and down the pages to get a feel for them. He did the same with the other two current ledgers. He stopped partway through the one that recorded supplies and miscellaneous. Flipping pages back and forth, he compared numbers. Though they appeared to be accurate with similar numbers, something seemed wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

He shuffled through the file folders and opened the one for accounts payable. He flipped through the papers until he found the one he was looking for.

There it was. He thought he'd remembered seeing an invoice for cordwood delivered. The invoice had a larger number than recorded in the ledger. It was off by only a minute amount.

A timid knock sounded on the door.

“Come in.”

A tall, gangly boy of fourteen or fifteen entered. All arms and legs protruding from his clothes. “You asked to see me?”

“Troy Morrison?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please have a seat.”

Troy twisted his cap in his hands. “I'll stand, thank you.”

“How do you like working for the mining company?”

“It's all right. I'm working real hard.”

“I'm sure you are. Miss Greene said you were supposed to meet with her to continue your studies.”

“I've been meaning to. But I'm so tired after work, I fall dead asleep. Sometimes before I even eat supper.”

The poor boy. “What subjects do you like best in school?”

“All of them.”

“Which one are you the best at?”

“Numbers. I can figure any equation Miss Greene gives me. I complete my arithmetic exams real fast. I even wait until most of the time is up and then see how fast I can get them done.”

Lindley could see why Bridget had compared this boy to Gabe. He could see a bit of his son in Troy's attitude. Both boys did what they could to make the work they were given more challenging. Bridget was right that this boy had a lot of potential. But he wanted to see just how much potential. “Pull up that chair and sit.”

Troy looked around and over his shoulder. “Mr. Brady said I was to get back to work as soon as possible if I wanted to keep my job.”

“I'll let Mr. Brady know you are here and aren't being indolent—oh, I meant lazy.”

“I know what
indolent
means. Miss Greene thinks she's giving me hard words, but I learn them fast.”

A lot like Gabe.

He motioned toward a chair. “I want you to look at some numbers for me. Tell me what you see.”

Troy shoved his cap in his back pocket and took a seat, scraping the chair legs on the floor.

Lindley turned the ledger to face Troy and set the open file folder next to it.

Troy's gaze shifted back and forth from the ledger page to the invoice. When he spoke, his tone was unsure. “Numbers don't match?”

That was fast. “Are you unsure?”

The boy straightened his shoulders and spoke with more confidence. “No, sir. The numbers on the invoice are more than the numbers in the ledger.”

“See if any of the other invoices don't match.”

“Is this like a test?”

“More or less.”

He held out his hands. “I'll get them all dirty.”

The boy was conscientious. That was good. “There's a pump outside. Wash up and come back.”

Troy left and returned posthaste with his hands clean, but little else. The dirt started at his wrists and went up his arms. The boy didn't even look at Lindley but went straight to the papers. Within minutes, Troy had sorted the invoices into piles. He flipped the pages of the ledger back and forth, comparing one invoice after another.

Lindley watched in silence.

Eventually, the boy raised his gaze. “There's an error for all the invoices.”

“Every one?”

“Yes, sir. Is that right?”

“Show me.”

The boy pointed out error after error. Every one of them so small they were easily overlooked.

Were these just simple mistakes? Or was someone adjusting the books for their benefit? If so, who?

A knock on the door.

“Come in.”

A miner covered in dirt entered. His shoulders were slumped and his head was down as if he wasn't good enough to be in the office. “I brung my boy his lunch.” He held up a pail.

Lindley stood and offered his hand. “You must be Mr. Morrison.” He didn't remember meeting the man when he worked a week underground. He must have been on a different crew.

The man stared at his own grimy palm.

Lindley stepped closer, his arm still outstretched. “It's only a little dirt.”

Mr. Morrison rubbed his hand vigorously on his dirty trousers and then shook Lindley's hand. “Call me Tom.”

“Tom, pleased to meet you.”

“Can my boy come back to work now?”

Lindley knew what the man was really asking. “No need to worry. He'll receive his full day's wage for working in here with me today.”

Tom blinked in disbelief. “You can do that?”

Lindley nodded. “Troy has been very helpful already.”

“All right, then, I'll leave you be.” Tom backed out the door.

“Troy, take a break and eat lunch with your father and return here afterward.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy jumped up and followed his father.

“And, Troy.” Lindley pointed to his arms and face. “Finish washing up.”

The boy nodded and left.

Maybe helping Troy would make Bridget see him more favorably. Maybe she would forgive him for whatever transgression she thought he'd committed.

* * *

After dismissing her pupils, Bridget followed them outside. Though it had rained off and on all day, at present, the clouds only spit out the occasional drop.

She hoped to catch a glimpse of Lindley again. Instead, Cilla came to retrieve his children. Bridget wondered where the rest of the “scouting party” was. His sisters probably didn't want anything to do with Bridget after her fight with Lindley. But to Bridget's surprise, Cilla walked toward her after hugging Gabe and Dora.

Cilla patted the children on the back and said, “Run along and play for a bit, but stay where I can see you.”

Bridget eyed the darkening sky. “It looks like it could start raining again any moment. Would you like to come inside?”

Cilla smiled. “We'd like that.” She turned to the children. “Inside.”