Linda Ford - Montana Cowboy Family

Shudder after shudder raced up and down her spine. She was no longer a naive sixteen-year-old but a wiser, stronger, more careful woman. Still, the thought of facing one of the Marshall men with their broad shoulders and piercing blue eyes filled her with dread.

Big or little, powerful or weak, she simply did not trust men. Not after her father’s business partner had cornered her in her bedroom, tossed her on her bed and done unspeakable things to her.

After he was done, he smiled at her. “That was fun, wasn’t it?”

To this day she didn’t know if he’d meant the words seriously or simply mocked her pain. After he’d left she’d curled into a little ball, her pillow clutched to her chest and cried. Her tears were spent, her insides hollow, when her mother came in some time later. She’d confessed it all, hoping for, longing for, comfort. But she’d been instructed to wash her face and come down to dinner even though that man—Walter—would be at the same table.

She’d been told to never mention what had happened. It would ruin her father, would put the family out of business and lastly, as if it mattered least, it would ruin Sadie.

Every time she had to face the man brought a repeat of her pain and fear. After a few weeks she had persuaded Mother to let her go stay with Aunt Sarah, her mother’s younger sister. Sadie had found a degree of comfort there, but her insides remained raw that her family—the very people who should protect her—had turned their backs on her pain and fear.

Time was supposed to heal all wounds and she tried to believe it. She had even allowed herself to be courted by shy, gentle Ronald Wilson. She’d gone so far as to agree to marry him, but as the time for the wedding approached she couldn’t go through with it. She had never told Ronald her reason for breaking it off. Could hardly explain it to herself. Yes, she was afraid of the intimacy of marriage, but it was more than that.

She was soiled. Ruined. Unworthy.

She drew in a long breath and lifted her head. That was in the past. Time healed all wounds, she repeated to herself. Or perhaps time simply allowed a scab to form.

All that mattered now was being a good teacher, showing the children how to succeed in life and protecting them from dangers.

She rose. Her knees shook and she sat down again. She needed some inner strength and knew where to go for it. Since her own Bible was in her new living quarters—two little rooms on the end of the schoolhouse—she reached for the bigger Bible that she kept in the classroom.

She pulled it to her and opened to a verse that had become her strength in the four years since that fateful day. 1 Samuel 30:6 “David was greatly distressed...but David encouraged himself in the Lord his God.”

Her finger trailed along the verse as she offered a silent prayer for help. God, strengthen me and uphold me with Your righteous right hand. Help me be able to speak boldly to Logan. Like she’d said to Isabelle Redfield the first day they arrived, the Marshall men frightened her with their size and self-assurance.

To be honest, she felt something more than guardedness around them. Something more than stiff awkwardness. The Marshalls were the kind of men who held strict standards. She feared that if any of them learned her secret she would be run out of town as a fallen woman. They must never know.

She closed the Bible, tucked in her chin and waited for Logan Marshall to appear.

She didn’t have long to wait. He rapped on the door frame and stood, worn gray cowboy hat in hand, waiting for permission to enter.

Feeling at a disadvantage sitting, she stood and waved him to the nearest chair.

He drew it forward, parked it in front of her desk and plunked down, piercing her through with his blue eyes.

Her knees wobbled and she sat. She lowered her eyes, avoiding his unblinking look, but still managed to study him. He was clean shaven, wore a gray shirt that had a smattering of wood dust on the shoulder and blue jeans that showed wear at the creases at the knees. Her gaze settled on his scuffed cowboy boots. A working man comfortable in his clothing and—she knew as surely as she sucked in her next breath—equally comfortable in his own skin.

She wondered how such confidence felt.

“Sammy stole my lunch. Two days in a row,” he said without any preamble.

Only a lunch? She’d feared something much bigger. “I’m not surprised. He’s forgotten his lunch every day. I’ve begun to think no one prepares one for him.” There were more signs that the boy was neglected and worse, but she didn’t mention them. One thing at a time.

“Whether or not that is so, he can’t go around thieving. It’ll end him in a heap of trouble. He needs to learn a lesson on the evils of dishonesty.” Logan leaned back, one leg propped at an angle over the other.

She tried not to let his posture of power affect her, but it made her spine prickle and made her think he meant for little Sammy to be punished. Exactly what did he have in mind? She imagined the Marshalls, with their strong personalities, wouldn’t flinch at much of anything, but she couldn’t bear the thought of him treating Sammy harshly. She decided to nip that idea in the bud. “He’s seven years old. Rather than sentence him to jail, perhaps we should find out what is going on with his family.”

Logan shook his head. “Wasn’t thinking of jail, but correcting him now might keep him out of one in the future.”

She felt her eyes narrow at the wisdom of his words. Not that she was willing to turn a small boy over to a big man. “You’re right. The boy needs to be punished. Let me take care of it.” She’d spare the rod, but make Sammy realize the dangers of his choices. Perhaps she’d have him write lines. She sat up straighter, putting a fierce look on her face to convince him she meant to handle this well.

He dropped his foot to the floor and leaned forward, his gaze so demanding she couldn’t look away. “You think he should be whipped?” His voice was soft, so she couldn’t judge his meaning. He looked about, perhaps searching for a strap.

She rose to her feet, gripping the edge of the desk to hold herself steady, and gave him her most challenging look. “Mr. Marshall, I will not tolerate physical punishment in my classroom.”

He leaned back and crossed his ankle over his knee again, taking his time about answering, as if considering how to handle the noncompliant schoolteacher. “That’s good to hear.”

She’d misjudged him and she sat down again, relief leaving her weak.

He continued. “But that isn’t what I had in mind. And it’s Logan, if you don’t mind. Wouldn’t want to be confused with all those Marshalls older than me.”

“What do you have in mind then?”

“He stole from me. He can work for me to pay off his debt.”

She stared at the man. “He’s seven.”

“Old enough to run and fetch. Besides, what he does isn’t important, but owning up to what he did is.”

His suggestion was so totally unexpected that she didn’t know what to say. Every time Logan opened his mouth, he surprised her. She’d been expecting harshness. Instead, he’d shown compassion and caring. She slowed her breathing as she realized she’d expected a lack of sympathy and understanding such as she’d experienced from her parents.

He nodded, taking her silence to mean agreement. “Tomorrow after school then? Or do you think he should come over at noon? Yes.” He answered his own question. “Noon would be better. Wouldn’t want to keep him from his chores at home.”

She pursed her mouth. “I’d like to know why he comes to school without a lunch.”

“Like you said, he’s seven. I’m guessing he forgot it.”

“Four days in a row?” Was now the time to mention the other things she’d noticed?