Dorothy Clark - Falling for the Teacher

Tension quivered on the air. Cole stared at her, silent and still, slowly tugged his shirt collar up around his neck and lowered his hands. “I’ve told you, I am not my brother, Miss Spencer. I abhor what he did to you. But I am at a loss as to how to convince you of that. Perhaps time is the only answer.” His voice, deep and quiet, blended with the drumming overhead. He turned, gestured toward his rain jacket. “That should keep you dry. Please hurry back to the house. Your grandmother is worried about you.”

She watched, wary and disbelieving, as he shoved open the door, ducked his head and stepped out into the gray deluge. What was he doing? She stared at the door, waited. It remained closed. The heavy thudding of her heart eased. Her racing pulse slowed. She dropped the hay rake, moved forward on shaky legs and stared down at the object he’d left behind. A furled umbrella with a brass knob in the form of a drake’s head.

Your grandfather sent me after you.

Was it true? She picked up her grandfather’s umbrella, held it against her chest and sagged back against the wall. Why would her grandfather do such a thing when he knew what had happened to her? Why would he send Cole Aylward, of all people, to come after her when she was alone and defenseless? Had her grandfather’s reason, also, been affected by his seizure? Or was Cole lying?

She closed her eyes, fought the clinging fog of weariness and fear. What could she do? She was helpless against Cole Aylward’s strength and unequal to an Aylward’s cunning ways. She tightened her grip on the umbrella and wrapped her arms around herself in a futile effort to stop the inward quivering, the outward shivering. “Heavenly Father, You know I’m not strong enough or brave enough to fight him. I can’t do this. Give me strength and courage and wisdom, I pray.”

Her choked, whispered plea was swallowed by the sound of the rain that pounded on the shakes overhead and slapped against the outside of the wall behind her. She opened her eyes and stared down at the rainwater that seeped under the door and trickled across the thick puncheons into the dark interior, trying to understand, to grasp what Cole was after. He had to have a reason for the care he was giving her grandfather. Was it money? Payne had stolen the money from her grandfather’s desk at the mill before he had—

A shudder passed through her. She shoved the memory away and thought about the conversation she’d overheard. Cole wanted her grandfather to buy something. It had to be Poppa’s money he wanted. That would explain why he was working to gain her grandfather’s trust—or knowledge of where he kept his money.

Her face tightened. The thought of her grandfather being duped because of his weakened state brought strength. She shoved away from the wall, partially opened the umbrella and waited for another lull in the wind, then slipped outside and slammed the door closed again, leaving Cole’s raincoat lying on the chest. She would rather be soaked to the bone than touch a garment that belonged to him.

* * *

The stable door banged.

At last. Cole pressed back into the darkness against the wall and watched Sadie run for the house, the umbrella she held bucking and flapping in the buffeting wind, the pouring rain soaking into her dress, turning the fabric black in the dim, stormy light.

No rain jacket. He needn’t have bothered leaving it for her. He should have simply left her the umbrella and gone home. He scowled and drew back as she gained the porch. There was no need; she didn’t even glance toward the end where he stood, merely hurried inside.

He pulled his wet collar tight against the back of his neck, crossed the porch and trotted down the steps. The wind plastered his wet pants to his legs, blew his shirt flat against his chest and fluttered and slapped the sides of it against his ribs. Rain soaked through the fabric and chilled his skin. He shivered and sprinted to the stable, water splashing from beneath his boots.

The wind wrestled him for the door. He forced it open, stepped through and eased it closed, then stood just inside to catch his breath. The smells of grain, hay and dust mingled on the moist air he drew in. A cold drop of water slid down his neck. He snatched his hat from his head, twisted the knit fabric and watched the water flow off his knuckles and splash on the floor.

The horse sniffed, extended its neck over the stall door and whickered.

“Later, girl. It’s not time for your feed.” White light flickered through the windows, gleaming on the garment draped across the feed chest. His jaw clenched. For a frightened, fragile-appearing woman, Sadie Spencer had a strong defiant streak.

He looked down at his hands twisting the knitted cap, eased their grip, tugged the hat back on his head and lifted his raincoat off the chest, his fingers digging into the rubber cloth. His mother had also been defiant and strong—in her own way. And that defiance had cost her her life at his father’s hands. Would Sadie have died by Payne’s hands if that logger hadn’t heard her scream and come running to her aid?

His stomach clenched at a sudden roll of nausea. The look of stark terror on Sadie’s face when he’d stepped through the door and turned toward her was chilling. And the anger of injured innocence, of a person who has had her sense of peace and security torn from her, lurked in the depths of her brown eyes. It was heartrending. How could he ever hope to make that up to her?

A lightning bolt crackled through the rain. Thunder clapped. He stared down at the rubber fabric dangling from his clenched hands and wished it were Payne in his grip.

* * *

They should be asleep by now. Sadie took a firm hold on the oil lamp and walked to the top of the stairs, listened but heard no sound. She thrust the lamp behind her, leaned around the corner and peeked over the railing. The trimmed lamp on the center table spread dim light through the empty entrance hall. The way was clear.

She gripped the railing and eased down the four steps to the landing, turned and started down the longer flight, glanced to her left. The morning-room door was closed, her grandfather’s snoring coming muted through its wood panels. Good. She could check the money box without interruption or explanation.

The soft tap of her slippers blended with the whispered brush of her dressing-gown hem against the polished oak steps as she descended. A loud snort from the morning room froze her at the bottom of the staircase. She held her breath, waited until the snoring resumed, then hurried across the hall into the library. The light from the lamp fell in a golden circle onto the braided rag rug her grandmother had made as a bride. A lump formed in her throat, swelled as she lifted her gaze. This was her favorite room. Poppa’s room.

She sniffed the air, smiled at the remembered blend of candle wax, wood smoke and leather, with a hint of bayberry cologne. Her gaze went to the window where she and Willa and Callie and Daniel had crouched beside the lilac bush and watched her grandfather take the flat box from the desk drawer, count money he pulled from his pocket, write something on a small piece of paper, put it all in the box and then return the box to the drawer. She had made the others promise, then and there, that they would never tell anyone about Poppa’s money box, especially Ellen, who could never keep a secret.

The light flickered over the settle where she’d curled up on the cushion and looked at books while Poppa worked, then settled to a steady burn as she placed the lamp on the game table where she’d learned to play checkers.

She thrust her childhood memories away and crossed to the tall bookshelf desk that sat between the two windows on the front wall and opened the drawer that held the flat wooden box. She brushed her fingers over the smooth, waxed top, then flipped it open. Empty.