Allie Pleiter - Family Lessons

Holly blinked. From Mason Wright, that was akin to a complimentary gush. “It was the only thing I could think of to do.” A murderous crisis was no time to get flustered, but she felt her blood rush to her cheeks just the same. She hadn’t realized just how much she needed someone to affirm she’d done the right thing. The relief threatened a new wave of tears, and she fought them off with a deep breath.

A child’s cry turned them both toward the bedlam surrounding Miss Sterling. The children were understandably out of control with fear and shock, and Miss Sterling didn’t seem to be in any shape to take things in hand. Who would be in such a situation?

She would, that’s who. Holly was an excellent teacher with a full bag of tricks at her disposal to wrangle unruly children. With one more deep breath, she strode off to save the day a second time.

* * *

Mason wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Usually, when Holly Sanders’s eyes tripped him up, he kept his mouth shut and steered clear. Sure, he’d worried about her in Newfield, but he’d worried more about how her wide eyes and meek smile would force him to get all close and protective of her if he went along on the trip. Mason always fought an urge to protect the tiny schoolteacher, and that urge could not be allowed. Ordinarily, Miss Sanders kept to the sideline of things, so it was easier to fight the urge, to not let himself be drawn in by her admiration. Staying away from Holly Sanders ensured he’d never again risk the kind of failure he’d already known.

Only that strategy had blown up in his face, for today she’d been stronger than he knew. Far stronger, and that truth was mighty hard to swallow. As a matter of fact, the shock of her strength had turned him stupid. If anyone saved the day here it was you? What kind of fool remark was that? He’d lost his control. Only for a moment, but land sakes that was enough, wasn’t it?

The way he’d figured her, Miss Sanders should be as undone as the pretty blonde crying on the rocks over there. And he had seen tears come up behind her eyes—despite doing his best to ignore them. So how was it she was trotting across the clearing with her hands on her hips, all teacher in command? Where’d a woman so quiet and tiny get such a core of steel?

His eyebrow shot up as Miss Sanders began to clap softly as she walked toward the children. She stopped about six yards out, speaking just soft enough to be heard. “Clap once if you can hear me.”

He thought the tactic crazy until one little girl’s eyes widened and looked up. Miss Sanders repeated herself, still clapping. “That’s right, clap once if you can hear me.” Startled out of her crying fit, the little girl clapped. A second girl next to her also looked up, sniffled, and clapped. Mason scratched his head, amazed.

“There you go. Now come over here and clap twice if you can hear me.” By now all three of the little girls were clapping and moving toward Holly. Even a few of the adults looked up from tending to Miss Sterling, their attention drawn by the change in the children.

“Clap three times if you can hear me,” Holly went on, garnering the attention of the two youngest boys. “Now four.” Miss Sanders’s voice steadied with every call, so that now she sounded as if this had been an ordinary school day. “Now five.” The whole clearing was looking at her as the children quietly gathered around her and she kneeled down to their level. Mason realized his mouth was open, and shut it promptly, his own hands on his hips. He’d never seen anything so oddly effective in all his days.

“It’s time to be calm and quiet. We’re safe, and things will be all right from here. Everyone have all their fingers and toes?” The voice was sensible and cheerful, as if it didn’t belong to the same woman who’d just stood over Arlington’s body. The smallest girl—a tot of four or five from the looks of it—actually bent down to inspect her shoes, no doubt wiggling her toes inside.

“Da,” the little girl said, dark braids bobbing. One of the older boys laughed, and a sliver of tension left the small sets of shoulders. Mason shook his head, befuddled.

“We’re going to walk over here,” Miss Sanders instructed, pointing to a spot that would shield the children from both Miss Sterling and the shrouded body of Mr. Arlington. “We’ll sit down by age. Can you do that for me?” She pointed to the second largest boy, placing him in charge of the task. “And you,” she said, pointing to the largest, “will go into the railcar and get everyone’s bags so we can make sure everyone has what they need. My town is just over that hill and you’ll all get to visit tonight. You’ll get some supper, too. But we’ve lots to do to make that happen so I’ll need everyone’s help.”

As Mason stood watching this small woman accomplish this very large feat, the train conductor came up with an equally stunned look on his face.

“Who is that?” he asked Mason as both men stared.

“That,” Mason said, not bothering to hide the respect in his voice, “is Holly Sanders.”

Chapter Three

Holly had walked the four miles from the railroad track to town hundreds of times, but none so tiresome as the trek felt today. As the slanted afternoon sun spread heat across the scrubby spring landscape, home and safety felt far away. She couldn’t tell if she was too shaken to feel the long walk, or too numb to feel anything but her feet inside her tight, pinching boots.

The many small feet making the journey beside her surely lengthened the miles. Some of the children wore their trauma outright, crying and clutching to Miss Sterling and herself. Others, like Liam, were so silent Holly couldn’t help but worry. Bucky and the other townsmen had taken the wounded bandits back to the Evans Grove jail while Mason laid Mr. Arlington’s body over his own horse after seeing the train back on its route. None of that changed the awful truth that no child should have to witness men gunned down.

Certainly not orphans. Why add this to the burden of their lives, Lord? Holly understood the charitable sentiment of the Orphan Salvation Society. Better lives awaited these children out here than the parentless squalor they knew in eastern cities. Still, to be hauled out of the place one knew, plunked onto a train and displayed before prospective families in town after town for placement—how could that be anything but traumatic? Even if many of them found spots in loving homes, her heart ached for the grueling process, the rejection of being “passed over.” Some of them were so heartbreakingly small and the train had made so many stops already.

“I’m glad you’re staying,” Holly offered to Miss Sterling. The woman had said next to nothing as she carried Galina, one of the smaller orphan girls, against her hip while holding the hand of a shy girl named Heidi. Miss Sterling had introduced each of the children on the train, and Holly was struggling against her fatigue to remember all their names. The three other boys—Tom, Patrick and some other German-sounding name she couldn’t recall at the moment—had been boisterous and quiet by turns, unsure how to handle the experience. Who could blame them? Holly herself was anxious one minute, exhausted the next. Heidi, the very quiet girl who had sat next to Miss Sterling on the train, hadn’t said a word since the shooting. Even though she mostly hid in the agent’s skirts, Holly had spied gruesome scars on the girl’s face. How cruel for a girl to have known so much pain so young. “I think the children couldn’t go on, and, Miss Sterling, nor should you.”

“Please call me Rebecca. We’ll have to stay. I’ll need to make...arrangements.” Her voice caught on the word. “I’ve no idea how to proceed under the circumstances. I’ve...” Her voice fell off in a wobbly sigh.