Linda Ford - Prairie Cowboy

“What? Tidy my hair?”

“No. Halter a bull. Not many women can do that. Lots of men can’t, in fact.”

Virnie chuckled. “Surprised you, didn’t I?”

Conor laughed, too. “You could say that.”

“I have to admit, it feels good to surprise Conor Russell.”

“Why is that?” He moved closer. In the light from the open door she saw his eyes were dark and watchful.

She met his look without revealing any sign of how her nerves jittered at having him so close.

“Because you have it all figured out. Women are weak and useless. There is no place for them on the farm or in your life. And pretty things have no value.”

He didn’t speak or indicate how her statement affected him.

“Maybe I proved you wrong.”

shares her life with her rancher husband, a grown son, a live-in client she provides care for and a yappy parrot. She and her husband raised a family of fourteen children, ten adopted, providing her with plenty of opportunity to experience God’s love and faithfulness. They had their share of adventures, as well. Taking twelve kids in a motor home on a three-thousand-mile road trip would be high on the list. They live in Alberta, Canada, close enough to the Rockies to admire them every day. She enjoys writing stories that reveal God’s wondrous love through the lives of her characters.

Linda enjoys hearing from readers. Contact her at linda@lindaford.org or check out her website at www.lindaford.org, where you can also catch her blog, which often carries glimpses of both her writing activities and family life.

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I have loved thee with an everlasting love: therefore, with lovingkindness have I drawn thee.

—Jeremiah 31:3

Dedicated to the teachers who have touched my life and the lives of my children in a positive way and especially to godly teachers who both teach and live a Christian example. May you be blessed in your work.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Dakota Territory, 1886

Her dream was about to come true in living, vibrant color.

In a few minutes she would welcome her first class of students. Eighteen-year-old Virnie White stood in the doorway of the brave little white schoolhouse and watched the children arriving in the schoolyard. The brittle yellow grass had been shaved by one of the fathers and the children’s feet kicked up soft puffs of dusty mown grass.

A horse entered the gate of the sagging page wire fence. The rider, a man, reached behind him. A child grabbed his arm and dropped to the ground.

The boy wore overalls that looked as if the only iron to touch them had been a hot wind. He wore a floppy hat that did little to hide the mop of wild brown curls. He needed to be introduced to a pair of scissors.

Virnie expected the father to ride away as soon as the boy got to his feet but he hesitated, glancing about until he saw her in the doorway. She felt his demanding look and gathered her skirts in one hand and hurried across the yard. He dismounted at her approach. She held out her hand to the black-haired man. “Miss Virnie White, the new teacher.”

He took her hand in his large, work-worn grasp and squeezed. “Conor Russell.”

She pulled her hand to her side. “And this is…?” The boy raced over to join the boys in kicking around a lump of sod.

“Ray.”

“How old is Ray?”

“Eight.”

At the note of longing in the man’s voice, Virnie turned. His gaze followed his son, concern evident in the tense lines around his eyes and the way he pressed his lips together. She studied him more closely. A handsome man with thick black hair that needed trimming almost as much as his son’s, eyebrows as black as his hair, and dark blue eyes that shifted toward her, giving her a look as full of challenge as the superintendent had given at her interview.

She lifted her chin, clasped her hands together and met the man’s look without flinching.

“Ray…well, Ray is…” He shifted his gaze past her to the men in the wheat field bordering the schoolyard.

She’d watched them earlier as they tossed stooks into the wagon and had breathed in the delightful nutty scent of ripe grain.

“What I’m trying to say is Ray’s mother is dead.”

One thought vibrated through her brain. A widowed father who cared about his child. She wanted to squeeze his hand and tell him how noble and wonderful he was. But the knowledge of his concern picked at a brittle scar and somewhere behind her heart a tear formed. Willing herself to ignore the place that held those hurtful things, she tipped her chin higher. Her lips felt stiff as she spoke. “Mr. Russell, rest assured I shall treat Ray with kindness and fairness.” As she intended to treat all the children.

He touched the brim of his hat in a gentlemanly expression that made her feel she had given him the assurance he needed. “I hope so.” He swung back into the saddle and kicked his horse forward, urging the animal to a gallop as soon as he left the schoolyard.

She stared across the field to where the men worked. The creak of the wagon as it groaned under the weight of stooks made little impression on her conscious thoughts.

Four little boys, Ray among them, raced past her chasing the steadily shrinking clump of sod. Did the child realize how fortunate he was? But then he was a boy. Obviously not the same thing to deal with as a motherless girl.

Virnie pulled herself back from the ghost of her past and with clipped steps headed for the schoolhouse. She glanced at the empty bell turret. How pleasant it would be to ring a large bell by means of a rope, but the community could not yet afford one so instead she picked up a hand bell from the step where she’d left it.

At its ringing, the children hurried toward her.

“Girls on my right. Boys on my left.”

They quickly sorted themselves out except for Karl and Max who didn’t appear to understand English.

She went to the pair and pointed them toward the boys’ line. She counted the boys—only eight and she knew at last count there were nine boys and eight girls. She checked the girls’ line and immediately saw the problem.

“Ray, the boys are in this line.”

Several of the children tittered and Ray shot her a blazing look.

Hilda, twelve and the oldest Morgan girl, leaned over and whispered. “Ray is a girl. Rachael Russell. It’s just her pa doesn’t know what to do with a little girl.”

Shock burned through her veins as hot and furious as the prairie fires she’d read about with a shiver of fear. Her vision alternated between red and black. She feared she would collapse. No. She couldn’t do that. Not on her first day of being a better-than-average teacher. She sucked in a breath, amazed the rush of air did nothing to dispel her dizziness. She knew firsthand how it felt to have your father wish you were a boy. Her father had gone so far as to say it. “Too bad you weren’t a boy. Would have made life simpler.”