Sycamore Hill (5 page)

Sycamore Hill had other conveniences. I spotted a tidy tack room
with several saddles and bridles displayed in the window, a butcher’s shop,
another white house indicating a doctor in residence, a tall dark-green
building with white trim named Apperson’s Feed and Hardware. I wondered briefly
if this Apperson was any relation to one after which a street I had seen had
been named. Probably. This was the kind of town one would not wish to leave.

I passed a millinery with a window full of charming hats and two
stylish dresses on mannequins. Stopping to admire the items on sale, I noted
the prices with dismay: I walked on briskly. There was a shoe-repair shop
smelling pleasantly of leather and polish on the right, and on the left, a big
white-stone bank building. Just beyond that was another less inviting
boardinghouse, two saloons and a quaint Italian restaurant with
red-and-white-checkered curtains.

I finally spotted a sign announcing Olmstead’s General Store. It
was only two blocks from the church and the end of town. Parked neatly in front
of the store was a loaded buckboard, and I hesitated. Surely that odious man
was not there waiting to laugh at me again, I thought furiously. Glancing
around, I saw other buckboards. One sat in front of the feed store; another was
heavily loaded and standing in front of one of the saloons. That one, I thought
with a twist of my lips, was probably Jordan Bennett’s.

Feeling more sure of myself, I started forward again. Mounting the
steps, I looked curiously at an awesome wooden Indian that stood in front of
Olmstead’s. Standing beside it, I looked up and down at the headdress,
buckskins and hawknose. Then I passed it and stepped into the store.

The first person I saw was Jordan Bennett! He was lounging against
the counter, laughing with a woman with pleasant features and long braided hair
pinned in a crown on her head. To my humiliation, I felt the color mounting
into my face as Bennett flicked a glance in my direction and then ignored me.
Never in my life had I despised anyone quite so much as I did him at that
moment. Even the Haversalls had not aroused such resentment.

The woman Jordan Bennett was with gave him a playful slap on the
hand and then raised her head to see me standing just inside the door. Her eyes
took in my bedraggled appearance as she came around the counter. She smiled, if
a bit curiously, and I forced a smile in return. I wondered only briefly if the
laughter between Jordan Bennett and this woman had been at my expense.

“May I help you?” the woman asked, stopping only two paces in
front of me and eyeing me curiously.

“Yes, I think so,” I answered huskily, my throat parched and sore
from thirst and swallowed dust. Some of the dust had come from the wheels of
Jordan Bennett’s buckboard, I thought resentfully, refusing to even look at
him. If he intended to ignore me, then that was fine.

“May I speak with James Olmstead? I’m Abigail McFarland from
Boston. He’s expecting me, I believe,” I informed the woman.

Her eyes lighted with excitement and pleasure. “You’re our new schoolteacher,”
she exclaimed brightly. “Oh, I’m so glad you’ve arrived safe and sound. Did you
have a nice trip?” Her exuberance caught me a little off guard. She almost
implied that I might have arrived other than well. And then I thought of the
picture I must make, and smiled in spite of my discomfort.

“Yes. Everything went well until the last few miles,” I told her,
casting a brief glance in Bennett’s direction and meeting decidedly warning
eyes. He straightened from the counter.

“Why don’t you get Miss McFarland a cup of your good coffee,
Emmy,” he suggested. Then he added yet another of his characteristically unkind
observations. “Our new schoolteacher looks badly in need of a drink of
something.”

I glared at him and then smiled at Emmy again. “A glass of water
would be very welcome,” I admitted, expecting Bennett to laugh. He didn’t.

“Oh, yes, of course. Just listen to me rattling on like some
magpie. I’m Emily Olmstead, Jim’s wife,” she said, extending her hand and
shaking mine firmly. “This is Jordan Bennett, one of our most illustrious
ranchers,” she teased him. “You’ll have his daughter, Linda, in your class.
She’s a dear, and as pretty as her mother.”

With that announcement I felt a hard lump drop into the pit of my
stomach. I avoided looking at Jordan Bennett again, feeling with dismay that it
was no wonder he had so decidedly disapproved of me when meeting me on the
road. I would be instructing his daughter. And there I had been, looking like
some scruffy derelict. I tried to remember every word I had said to the man and
hoped I had not been too unforgivably rude.

“The coffee, Emmy,” Jordan Bennett prodded with an amused smile.

“Oh, yes, the coffee. I’m sorry. I’ll get it now and collect my
husband on the way back.” She laughed. As she passed Jordan, she tapped him.
“Have a pleasant day,” she said.

“You too, Em.” He smiled slightly, apparently understanding some
message she had passed to him. “Give my regards to Jim.” Mrs. Olmstead nodded
and disappeared behind the curtain to the back storeroom.

I felt a sudden trepidation being alone with Jordan Bennett.
Deliberately turning away, I pretended interest in the rows of canned goods,
the flour and rice bins and the bolts of cloth stacked neatly on a long table.
I heard him move behind me and stiffened with nervous tension.

“Did you enjoy your walk, Miss McFarland?”

I controlled the irritation his amused tone aroused, and forced
myself to answer evenly. “Even the last two miles, Mr. Bennett.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he murmured, and I could tell he was laughing
at me again. I could feel him watching me. “You were about to tell Emmy of our
meeting on the road. Take my advice. Don’t.”

I did turn around then. “Why not, Mr. Bennett? Might it be
embarrassing for you?” My tone implied challenge, and his eyes narrowed
slightly.

“I don’t embarrass easily.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would at that. One does need a conscience
first,” I went on incautiously.

“Something you obviously think I lack,” he commented dryly, his
eyes dancing again. I decided not to answer and hoped my silence would be
enough.

The corner of Bennett’s mouth curved up. “Listen to me, my dear
little Boston grande dame. The first thing you had better learn about being a
schoolmarm is not to lounge under shade trees, sharing drinks and conversation
with strange men.”

His description of our brief encounter sounded scandalous. In
embarrassment and rising indignation, I flushed red to the roots of my auburn
hair.

“I was not lounging under a shade tree, and you know it, Mr.
Bennett,” I hissed furiously.

“From my vantage point you were. And the conversation begged a
flirtation,” he taunted, unmoved by my frustration.

I stared at him in disbelief. “I don’t flirt!” I denied hotly. He
chuckled, obviously finding my discomfiture greatly amusing.

“I find that encouraging,” he drawled, leaning closer so that I
had to arch back away from him. He smiled, his eyes glimmering some message
that my mind did not fully understand, but my senses did. They quickened until
my heart was thudding rapidly. Bennett straightened again as though well aware
of his effect on me. His voice became brisk.

“After all, Miss McFarland, there are certain things a town
expects of its teacher, one being an untarnished reputation.” The
unfriendliness was back in his voice and expression.

I blanched at his implication. “There’s nothing wrong with my
reputation,” I was stung to reply in my own defense.

“Not yet, maybe. But a few indiscreet admissions on your part
might change that, and you’d find yourself out of a job before you even got
started.” He made himself perfectly clear.

“Nothing happened that I’m embarrassed about,” I said, and then
remembered the loosened buttons on my blouse as his eyes trailed down to remind
me.

“People always prefer to see the worst. It makes their vicarious
living more exciting,” he said cynically. “They hear the facts ... a lone girl
on the road, lingering with a man,” he went on, insinuating much. He raised his
brows provocatively, his eyes moving to my mouth.

“You’re vile!” I gasped. “And I don’t believe you are the least
concerned about
my
reputation,” I went on, thinking of his pretty, young
wife and daughter. His mouth tightened in impatience.

“There’s nothing that can damage my reputation at this point,” he
said coldly. “I’ve lived in these parts most of my life, minus a few years.
People have already drawn their own conclusions about my questionable
character.”

In other words, they would believe anything he said above whatever
defense I might present, I thought with sudden anxiety.

“Meaning you intend to put a different connotation on our meeting
if I should choose to say anything about it,” I managed defiantly. “You’re even
worse than I first thought,” I murmured, turning away, Bennett’s hand forcibly
swung me back. There was a ruthless determination in his hardened expression
that warned me against pressing him at all. Seeing my startled and frightened
expression, he released me.

“Your intelligence isn’t as high as I thought,” he commented
dauntingly.

“You needn’t be so insulting, Mr. Bennett,” I snapped back, my fright
momentarily forgotten in the face of his remark.

“Everything’s been running just fine. I don’t need a damn little
schoolmarm around to complicate matters,” he said, his eyes glittering in odd
accusation. “Why the damn hell did you come to Sycamore Hill?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do I have to do with
anything you’re involved in? But as for my reason for being here, this town
evidently needs a teacher. And you, yourself, could do with some English
lessons, Mr. Bennett. Or can you only promote your own idiocy by using foul
language?”

Jordan Bennett stilled to a pulsating silence at my rushed and
breathless speech. Then he grinned, his good humor apparently restored. “At
least you’re true to form. That, perhaps, will be small comfort.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, becoming more and more
exasperated.

“Never mind.” He dismissed it. “Why don’t you take a little
friendly advice, Miss McFarland?” he went on in the same friendly manner. “Go
on back to Boston and your comfortable parlors and fine-feathered friends.”

My chin jerked up as I was reminded of the Haversalls. “You don’t
know anything about me. So don’t presume to tell me where I belong!”

“Oh, I could tell you exactly where you belong, Miss McFarland,”
he offered, his blue eyes gazing at me in such a way as to bring confused color
rushing again into my cheeks. “A man doesn’t need a lot of time to know all
there is to know about a woman.”

“What a prime example of conceit you are,” I managed, but I did
not sound very convincing.

“I know more about your nature than you think,” he continued,
gloating over my unease.

“I doubt if you know anything at all, Mr. Bennett.”

“I know you’ll make a lousy schoolteacher,” he prophesied harshly,
giving a low blow to my already shaking ego. All the doubts I had voiced to
Bradford Dobson when he had learned of this position came flooding back to
haunt me. Perhaps Jordan Bennett was right.

“Are you losing your nerve already, Miss McFarland?” Bennett
asked. I tilted my chin at a determined angle.

“I will do my very best,” I said, hoping he had not seen the sad
state my confidence was in. He watched my face as though searching for some
indication of weakness.

“I’ve no doubt you will,” he admitted, dismally making it clear
that my best would not be good enough. “You’ll dig your own premature grave in
that godforsaken schoolhouse. I don’t doubt it for one minute.” He started to
say more, but shook his head as Emily Olmstead’s voice was heard from the back
room. He gave me an unpleasant little smile.

“I should stay and make things really difficult for you,” he
threatened.

“I don’t see how your staying or going will make one bit of
difference to me,” I retorted truthfully.

“Don’t challenge me to show you,” he warned, the glitter back in
his eyes. “Things are going to be harrowing enough for you without my adding my
two-bits’ worth.”

With that disquieting comment he turned and strode out of the
store. I watched him as he jumped onto his loaded buckboard with ease. He
untied the reins and released the brake with an impatience born of anger.

“Jim, this is Miss Abigail McFarland,” Emily Olmstead said from
behind me, drawing my attention away from Jordan Bennett, who was already
moving off down the street. I turned with a tense smile, extending my hand to
the bullish-looking man with balding head and sharp brown eyes.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he greeted respectfully while
looking me over with questioning intensity.

“I’m afraid I had to walk the last ten miles.” I tried to explain
my state. “The stagecoach lost a wheel, you see—”

“We expected you to come by train,” Olmstead interrupted.