Under Starry Skies (19 page)

Maria nodded, both in appreciation and understanding.

“What about the dresses?” Abigail asked, her hands on her hips.

“We’ll have to come back for the dresses,” Maria said with a sigh. “We can’t carry both.”

“But we came for dresses, not old blankets.”

“Abby, don’t be difficult. The children need to be warm.” Maria felt the letter in her pocket, and her only thought was to get out of the manse as quickly as possible. Her sister could be so trying at times.

“Here’s an idea.” Millie came to her aid with a wane smile. “I’ll have Will Singer or Big Jake put a trunk of old blankets in the barn, and Will can take it to you when Emma returns. He has to take the buggy to the carriage house. I don’t know what that woman was thinking when she convinced Henry to construct those buildings way down there. During the winter, the men must return the horses, sled, or buggy to the barns below and trudge back up through the snow to finish their chores at the house.” She shook her head. “She’s even having Lang Redford enlarge the root cellar in the basement. Heaven only knows why. We don’t need to put up more vegetables for the winter with so few mouths to feed.”

Under Millie’s watchful eyes, Maria and Abigail quickly selected a few dresses from among the many in the trunks, thanked the housekeeper, and started back down to their cottage. On the way, Maria told Abigail about her meeting with Two Bears at the school. She was afraid the signals she had planned to leave for Two Bears could be ruined if Abigail unknowingly brought the bucket and dipper into the house. In turn, Abigail related to her what Brett had told her about the mine and ownership by their father. Both easily agreed it was best to keep all shared information a secret.

Back at the cottage, Maria grabbed the dresses from Abigail’s hands, pulled her into the bedroom, tossed the dresses on the bed, and shut the door.

“What’s wrong? Has the attic dust addled your brain?” Abigail’s hands flew up into the air. “You’ve been acting strange and out of sorts since we left the manse.”

Maria pulled the letter from her apron pocket. “The trunk in the back of the attic has Confederate clothes in it, along with a saber, other men’s clothes and shoes, and a pile of letters. I took the top one from the packet,” she whispered.

“You stole Aunt Emma’s letters?”

“Letter. Not letters.”

“Oh, Maria, how could you?”

“Think about it, Abby. Uncle Henry was killed with a Confederate button clutched in his hand.”

Abigail’s eyes grew huge and round. “Did you check the uniform? Was a button missing?”

“I didn’t have time. Millie Hanson showed up before I had a chance.”

Maria unfolded the letter. Heads bent together, the two women read the letter in unison:

My Dearest Emma,

How often I think of you and the few short days we spent together. How often I think of your exquisite face, charming wit, and exceptional Southern hospitality. You can’t begin to understand how much I hold you in deepest esteem for sheltering me during those days when I was enroute to rejoin the Confederate ranks in Georgia.

Should you ever come east, you are most welcome in my home in Augusta.

Your humble servant and ardent admirer,

Capt. Charles Everhart

Maria looked at Abigail. “Aunt Emma had a romantic tryst with a Confederate soldier?”

“She harbored a Confederate soldier, you mean. Maybe even one who returned and killed Uncle Henry.”

“Now, Abby. Let’s not jump to any conclusions until we find a way to get back to the attic and check out the uniform. And then we don’t know if the uniform belongs to Charles Everhart. Let’s not talk to anyone about this until we are certain we have some sound evidence.”

Later, at bedtime, both girls were silent as they prepared for bed and a million thoughts swirled in their heads. So many, neither of them had a good night’s rest.

****

Sunday was a rare autumn day, cool and crisp, when Maria walked to the schoolhouse after church, taking with her some books she had promised to lend to her older students. Along the path, late-blooming blue asters, goldenrod, and Queen Anne’s lace nodded their heads while sumac stood boldly ablaze in red along the cemetery. Usually, she enjoyed the walk, but more recently, she had the odd sensation she was being followed. Behind her, she heard a twig snap and she stopped, feeling the fine hairs at the back of her neck rise. She turned, searching the shadows and woods behind her while the feeling persisted. When she saw nothing, she heaved a soft sigh and berated herself for being so silly and fickle. Of course the woods were filled with wildlife—birds, squirrels, and small animals—scurrying about, minding their own business, putting in their stock of food for winter.

Farther on, she stopped, placed her books on a nearby rock, and picked some chicory, Queen Anne’s lace, goldenrod, and other blooms into a colorful bouquet before she sought out her uncle’s grave at the back of the cemetery. She was surprised again when she approached the site to find someone had again placed a fresh bouquet of daisies, tied with a simple white ribbon. She stared at it for a few minutes, puzzled, and reminded herself to ask Abigail whether she had stopped by.

With quick steps, Maria proceeded to the schoolhouse, glad to know she could unload her burdensome bag of books and also pleased the older students were now taking a more active interest in reading. When she opened the door, she was not prepared for what greeted her on the slate board. In large white letters, someone had written:
Go home
.
You are not wanted here.

Maria stared at the warning, her heart thudding. A niggling voice whispered in her ear:
Was this the malicious act of one of her students?
Or had someone, an adult perhaps, left her a poignant warning? Suddenly, she grew angry, and her fists clenched as tightly as her jaw. She would not be threatened in her own classroom. Promising herself she would get to the bottom of it, she went to the board, took an eraser from her desk, and wiped the slate clean. She had learned early in her teaching career student pranks were common, and someone in the class would eventually squeal on the offending rascal. She had only to remain silent and vigilant.

Later, returning from the schoolhouse, Maria found Abigail waiting for her on the front porch. Her arms were crossed at her chest and a scowl marred her usually animated face. She tapped the toe of her foot in irritation. “You ordered chickens?”

With a look of confusion, Maria peered up at her from the bottom step. “Chickens? What chickens?” She followed her sister through the house and out the back door where a wooden crate sat on the stoop and held a black rooster and four chickens—one red, one speckled white and black, and two of them pure white. “You didn’t buy these?”

Abigail shook her head. “I thought you did.”

Bewildered, Maria stared at the crate as the rooster crowed what seemed a colorful expletive, unhappy with his confinement. The only persons she had told about her desire to have fresh eggs were Abigail, Tye, and Two Bears.

“Well, these pretty ladies can’t stay in a cage if we want eggs,” Abby finally said. Together they lugged the crate to the chicken coop at the side of the shed and opened the door. “We’ll have to get some feed. If they roost and lay as I think they will, we should have over a dozen eggs a week. And any eggs we don’t need, I can buy from you for the inn.”

“But we don’t know where these came from. They could be stolen or delivered to us by mistake,” Maria said.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Abigail chided her. “Let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth!”

Or a rancher or an Indian, Maria thought to herself.

Chapter Fifteen

The morning sun sent slanted rays into the window of the schoolhouse and warmed the room along with the stove Maria had earlier fired when she arrived. Thanks to Lenny Sanderson and his father, a huge pile of wood was stacked along the side of the schoolhouse and a wooden crate of kindling beside the stove.

The young boy, an eager learner, had appeared like clockwork every Tuesday and Thursday, never missing a day, always arriving early. Head bent, biting his lower lip, he was now concentrating on the arithmetic problems she had assigned him. He was a remarkably fast learner, too, able to keep up with many of the older students who attended every day. Often when he finished his work before his classmates, he quietly pulled out the sketchbook she had given him and proceeded to draw what she considered the most amazing pictures of animals and landscapes. The child was gifted. There was no doubt.

She was also pleased that he had made friends with Joseph Sarowski’s quiet, polite grandson, Isaac, who was about his age. Both boys were good for each other, both of them being rather shy. She noticed he was still arriving each morning without a coat, and she reminded herself to ask Tye whether he or his brothers had any cast-off clothing. It would be a difficult chore to convince Lenny to take a coat, but she would try.

As Maria walked between the desks, checking the progress of every student, she thought about the first lesson she would have later in the afternoon with Two Bears. Why had she even agreed to help him? She remembered the look of shock on Abigail’s face when she told her Two Bears had visited the school.

“You had
tea
with an
Indian
in the schoolhouse?” Abby had asked with dismay. “Did you serve him crumpets, too?”

“No,” she told her sister. “Just a plain biscuit. It was all I had, but I put honey in the tea.”

“Oh, what a cheery thought!” Abigail had lifted her mouth in a wry smile. “Well, it makes me feel so much better knowing your Irish manners aren’t amiss even though your brain is taking a rest. Mother and Father are probably rolling over in their graves, and if Aunt Emma should find out about your antics, she’ll have apoplexy.”

Smiling at the memory, Maria looked out the schoolhouse window at the landscape where far beyond, mountains rose up with their ragged but colorful blue peaks lined with the green of lodgepole pine and aspen, their leaves turning yellow. How drastically her life had changed in just a short time.

She was now in a strange place, teaching a roomful of new children, and living in a small but cozy four-room cottage, surrounded by ranchers, egg-laying feathered friends, and an Indian who wanted to learn to read and write.

Her thoughts wandered to Tye Ashmore. He was a quiet, often withdrawn man with an unusual sense of humor, but not always a burning need for unnecessary conversation. Yet when they were together, time seemed to revolve in beautiful harmony, and the minutes flew by. Maria still had not discovered who her benefactor for the chickens was, though she doubted that it was Tye. A methodical man in all his daily chores and undertakings, he was not the type to drop off a gift and leave without saying a word. He had promised to take her to an early dinner tomorrow, and she had eagerly agreed, although she had no idea where he had planned for them to dine. That was one detail she had forgotten to ask him about.

She thought about the blackboard and the message she had erased on Sunday afternoon. None of the children had acted sheepish or guilty. All had greeted her warmly and looked her straight in the eye, impatient to begin a new week. A wave of apprehension swept over her. What if it wasn’t a childish prank? She quickly brushed the thought aside. This was her classroom. She was the teacher of this schoolhouse. She was now part of the town and its people, and no one was going to scare her away.

****

Tye Ashmore loved working outside, especially on those rare autumn days when the days were hot and the nights were cool, and fresh cool breezes made the air smell radiantly crisp and clean. Overhead, a flock of geese honked, and he stopped from his task of breaking a bronc in the corral to watch them wing their way southward.

He was just about to mount the contrary critter again when Marcus rode up, kicking up a cloud of dust as he approached. He slipped off his horse, tying the mare to the top rail. “You just got your bum leg back in shape, and you’re breaking broncs again?” Marcus rested his forearms on the rail. “Do you ever learn from your mistakes, or are you doomed to repeat them, little brother?”

Tye walked over to the fence, beating the dust from his hat on the side of his thigh. He ducked between the rails to stand beside him. “He who kills time buries opportunities, Marcus. I had some free time to kill.”

“If not yourself.” Marcus laughed, turned, and untied a bag from his saddle. “Corn muffins from Anna. I’ve been peddling them all over town and to every family member.”

“You rode all the way out here to give me muffins?”

Marcus shook his head and pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “That wire you sent to Marshall Luke Ashmore came back with some answers. I picked it up at the telegraph office.” He leaned against the fence and promptly withdrew a muffin and started eating it.

“I thought you said those muffins were for me!” Tye grabbed the bag and reached for the paper, but Marcus held the telegraph out of his reach.

“It seems,” Marcus said and swallowed the food in his mouth, “that Emma’s friend, companion, and carriage driver, Mr. Lang Redford, is a handyman, stable master…and gunslinger as well. And I bet you don’t know where he came from?”

“What is this, Marcus? A guessing game? Give me the damn wire.”

Marcus chuckled. “Georgia. And guess which side of the War he fought for?”

Resigned to his brother’s antics, Tye took a muffin from the bag and bit into it. “The South, of course, which means he should have worn, at some point, a Southern uniform. That doesn’t mean a thing, Marcus. Many men out here fought for both sides. Cullen Wade came from Georgia and was enlisted by General Lee to doctor for the South, against his wishes to leave and resettle here in Golden. Remember, Brett Trumble was found on the wrong side wearing Confederate gray.”

“Has Brett been able to gather enough information to clear his name?” Marcus asked.

“He’s still working on it.”

Marcus nodded. “I still think it would be wise for us to keep a close watch on this Lang Redford. A gunslinger turned carriage driver and lady’s escort puzzles me. Another thing, I learned was that Emma McNeil’s first husband was a miller.”