Romancing the Schoolteacher (6 page)

He wanted to push back a lock of wet hair from her face, but knew that would be inappropriate, so he did so to Dora instead. “I thought I was going to die. I tried to pretend I wasn't as scared as I really was. I used to have terrible nightmares on stormy nights.” Used to? He still did. Doreen had been good at soothing him when he cried out in the night.

“I don't understand how that relates to dancing in the rain.”

“First of all, I don't dance.
Playing
in the rain is like a celebration. The storm didn't get the better of me. I lived.”

She stopped just short of her porch steps and stared at him.

She must think him daft for sure. He wished he'd kept quiet about the whole story. Said something feeble, like he knew his children would enjoy it, and brushed it off. But her compassion and interest had drawn it out of him.

“That is so inspiring.”

“It is?” How could being terrified of rain be inspiring?

“You took something that was horrible and turned it into something wonderful.”

It had been Doreen who had helped him face his fear. She'd taken him out in a storm and had him close his eyes. Smell the freshness it brought. Feel it on his face. Washing away his fear. “I never wanted Gabe and Dora to be afraid like I was.”

She touched Dora's arm. “I think you have succeeded marvelously. Would you like to come in and warm up before you continue on home?”

He would very much like to stay. “Thank you, but no. I want to get Gabe and Dora out of their wet clothes.” He tipped his hat with his free hand, scooped up his son still wrapped in the quilt and then headed for home.

His mouth pulled into a smile. She thought his dancing in the rain was inspiring and wonderful. Yes, he'd been
dancing
with his children.

T
wo days later, Lindley met with Marcus after supper. “Thank you for coming.”

Marcus stood, leaning against the corner of Lindley's company shanty. “Sure. What's with all the secrecy?”

“I have a matter I wish to discuss with you. You know the men better than I do.”

Marcus clasped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner. “Are you worried the men don't like you? In time, you will know them all well and they you.”

“That's not it. Yes, in time. But I want to know what grievances they have.”

Marcus jerked his hand away as though jabbed with a hot poker. “Grievances?”

“Things at work they would like to see changed. Like the houses the company provides. They are only slightly better than no roof at all. My roof has at least three leaks. Every time it rains, the inside is as wet as the outside. I want to talk to the site manager to get things improved for everyone. If we go in with one thing we want changed, we won't get it. But if we have five, we might get two. Three if we're lucky.”

Marcus stepped back. “We don't want no trouble. This is good honest work.”

He didn't understand Marcus's reluctance. “But don't you want things better for your family? Wouldn't you like some real money and not just the company script?”

“Script is good at the store. I can get everything I need there. You go stirring up a hornet's nest, and we all get stung.”

“But don't you want more? If the workers all band together, things can get better for everyone.”

“You go in spouting off all that is wrong and things could get a whole lot worse. I seen it at another camp I worked at before coming here. This is downright paradise compared to that place.” Marcus held up his hands. “I don't want no part of whatever you got planned.” He strode away.

Lindley couldn't understand. Marcus didn't even want to try to make things better. Did all the men feel the same way?

Marcus was one of the biggest men in camp and an undeclared leader among the miners and kiln workers. Everyone looked to him more than the foreman. Without Marcus's support, Lindley could do very little. But he would do what he could.

* * *

On the following Monday, three of Bridget's students were home sick with colds, including one of the Bennett children. On Tuesday, two more of the Bennett children were out sick. At lunchtime, Mr. Thompson showed up at the school. Though he looked every bit the miner now, she still wondered about him.

Dora ran to him. “Papa!”

He scooped up his daughter, strode to where Bridget sat on the schoolhouse steps and tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Greene.”

As she moved to stand, he held out his free hand to her. She placed her slender fingers in his and stood. A small thrill danced through her. Wherever this man had come from, he was taught good manners. “Good afternoon, Mr. Thompson.”

“I came to ask a favor of you.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“Several of the Bennett children are ill. I was wondering if Gabe and Dora might go home with you in the afternoons. Just until I get off work and just until the Bennett children are well. I would see if they could go home with another family, but so many have sick children.”

She should say no for many reasons. She didn't want the other students or parents to think she was choosing favorites in her class. She also didn't want people to start whispering that there was something going on between her and Mr. Thompson.

And most of all, she shouldn't get involved with this man. He had secrets. She was sure of it. But when she opened her mouth, all common sense flew out of her head. “I would love to look after them.” Maybe Gabe and Dora could stay healthy that way.

Dora clapped.

“I really appreciate this. I'll pay you back somehow.”

She didn't know how he would ever be able to on miner's wages. But she liked the idea that he would try. It would mean she would likely see more of him. At least every day when he came to retrieve his children. And then by whatever means he would try to pay her back. It was really no trouble. Gabe and Dora were sweet. She lifted up prayers for a quick recovery of the ill children and that her remaining pupils would stay healthy.

By the time the miners got off work, Bridget had a pork-and-potato stew ready with biscuits and a peach pie for dessert.

Gabe sat by the window, watching. “Here he comes!” The boy jumped off the chair and opened the door before his father could knock.

Mr. Thompson remained on the porch. He opened his mouth as if to speak but hesitated. His nostrils twitched. He appeared to have gotten a whiff of supper. Then he said, “Come on, Gabe. Dora. Time to go.”

He must have a tremendous amount of willpower to turn away from a cooked meal. She knew he had to be hungry after a full day of work.

“Miss Greene made supper.” Gabe grabbed his father's sleeve and pulled.

Mr. Thompson stumbled across the threshold and gazed at her. “We don't want to impose on Miss Greene's generosity.” His words said one thing and his eyes another.

Bridget smiled at him. “It's no imposition.” It had been nice having more than just herself at her supper table the other night.

“Come on, Papa.” Gabe pushed his father aside and closed the door.

“If you're sure that it's no trouble.” Mr. Thompson's stomach rumbled.

She pretended not to hear it. “I would enjoy the company. It would be much better than eating alone.”

Mr. Thompson crossed to the sink, but he appeared to have already washed up. “Sure smells good in here.”

So he
had
noticed.

After dessert, Dora jumped up from the table. “Can I show Papa your clock?”

“Dora,” Mr. Thompson said sharply. “You didn't ask to be excused.”

She huffed a breath and climbed back onto her chair. “May I be 'scused?”

“Thank Miss Greene for supper and dessert.”

The girl turned to Bridget. “Thank you for supper and dessert.” She twisted back to her father. “May I be 'scused now?”

Mr. Thompson grinned at his daughter. “Yes. Take your plate to the sink.”

Bridget could see he loved his children very much.

Dora carefully carried her plate to the counter by the sink and then stood by Bridget's chair. “Can I show Papa your pink clock?”

“I'll get it.” It wouldn't be appropriate for him to go into her bedroom. Bridget stood.

Mr. Thompson stood, as well.

Bridget acknowledged his courtesy with a nod before she left the room. She returned a moment later with the ceramic clock in her hands and set it on the table. It sat about fifteen inches high and eight inches wide and had pink and yellow primroses painted on it.

Mr. Thompson's eyes widened as he moved around the table to get a better view. “This is really nice.”

“Papa, I want a clock just like this.”

“Maybe someday, darling.” He picked up his daughter. “Time for us to go.”

By Friday, Bridget's class of twenty-two had been reduced to eight pupils, and the first children who had gotten sick were reported to have whooping cough. Neither Gabe nor Dora was among the sick. It had been prudent of Mr. Thompson to have arranged for his children to stay with her in the afternoons.

At his knock on her door, Bridget's heart sped up. She willed it to slow down. She couldn't let this man climb into her heart. So why had she started preparing enough supper for four? She told herself she was just lonely, but she knew it was more.

People were really going to start talking if this kept up. If not for Dora and Gabe, she would put an immediate stop to it.

Maybe.

* * *

Miss Greene's door opened to Dora swallowed up in a pink apron with a ruffle around the bottom. “I'm helping make supper!”

Lindley smiled down at his daughter. “I can see that.” It was good for her to have someone to teach her, even if only for a short while. And the aroma was marvelous.

He reached out his arms to pick her up. But she lifted the front of the apron off the floor as though it were a ball gown, twirled around and trotted back to the kitchen area. His arms were left hanging in midair. He dropped them and settled his gaze on Miss Greene. “I don't suppose it would do me any good to try to decline a supper invitation.” He hoped she wouldn't say yes.

She crossed to the door. “Not in the least.”

“I didn't think so.” He picked up the five-pound sack of flour he'd set just outside the door. “I can't let you keep feeding us without giving you something in return.”

She beamed. “That was very thoughtful. Thank you.”

He enjoyed the suppers they shared for more than just the tasty food. He enjoyed her company immensely. He didn't want them to end. Not each evening or into the future.

The next night, he brought two pounds of white sugar. Then brown sugar. Then coffee. Salt pork. Lard.

W
hen Lindley and his children arrived home after supper that following Thursday, Marcus stood in front of his house. His relationship with the man had been strained since their talk two weeks ago about grievances. And so went the attitudes of the rest of the men. Without Marcus, Lindley had not been able to find out what the men and their families needed changed most. Though he had a good idea from his own recent experiences.

Lindley opened his front door. “Gabe, Dora, go get ready for bed.” His children scurried inside. He stayed out. “Is this a social call?”

Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. “Not exactly. Can we talk?”

“Want to come in?” He still hoped to get Marcus on his side.

“Not in front of the children. You go see to them.” The big man glanced around. “I'll wait out here.”

Lindley nodded and went inside. To say he was surprised by Marcus's visit didn't adequately cover it. The man hadn't spoken more than two words to him in over a week. He hustled his children to bed and went back outside. “All right. What did you want to talk about?”

Marcus hesitated and cleared his throat. “Those grievances you spoke of.”

Lindley had figured he would give him another week before broaching the subject again. “I haven't done anything about that yet.” He really needed Marcus's support.

“I know.” Marcus glanced around again and shifted his bulk. “But I want you to.”

Lindley could only stare at the man. Marcus was suddenly supportive of his position? With no coercing? “You were pretty adamant. What changed your mind?”

“My littlest one, only a year old, has the coughing.”

“Marcus, I'm sorry. Did you take him to the doctor?”

“Doc says there ain't much he can do. His resources are for the men, to keep them healthy for working. Hardly glanced at my son.”

Lindley's body tensed. “Is your boy real bad?”

“Not yet, but he's not getting better. Decker's six-month-old boy passed just yesterday from the coughing.”

Lindley didn't know Decker.

“We have a doctor, but he ain't no help when we need him. Leastways not for our families.”

“That's not right.” Lindley shook his head. It wasn't likely that he could convince the doctor to treat the child if Marcus couldn't. At least not tonight. “When I was a boy and had a bad cough, my mother used to have me breathe in the steam from the teakettle. She would drape a towel over my head to keep the steam from evaporating. It would make me cough like the dickens, but then I could breathe better for a while.”

“Thank you. I'll try that.” Marcus turned to walk away and then stopped. “We'll talk about those other grievances tomorrow.” He left.

Lindley was sorry for Marcus's child being sick but was glad the man was on his side now.

* * *

The following week, Bridget sat at her table with Mr. Thompson and his children. Every evening for two weeks, they had eaten supper together like a family. A closeness she'd never had or felt with her own family. No siblings to share life with. But she'd had a string of nannies to keep her company, some good and some who didn't last a week.