Second Chance Bride

“This is the schoolroom,” Mr. Sullivan said, “as, I am sure, you must have surmised.”

Surmised. Annie rolled the word around in her mind. It had such a weighty feeling. “Yes, I’d surmised that.” She nodded.

He motioned toward a narrow room at the other end of the building. “That’s the kitchen. You’ll warm the students’ lunches there and may use it to prepare your own meals.”

So that’s how schools did things. “How many students are there?”

Even in the faint glow of the lamp, Annie could see his puzzled expression. He must have written Matilda about that, too. “Twelve. Not a terribly large group to teach, but they are in all the grades from one through seven.”

“I’d forgotten.” She nodded again, precisely, a gesture that seemed to belong to her new character.

“Your bed and drawers for your personal accoutrements are through this door,” he said as he put the bag on the floor in front of it.

Accoutrements. Another word to remember. “I have few accoutrements.”

“There is a door to the outside in your room.” He pointed. “The facility is behind the building.”

She nodded again.

“Several of the mothers cleaned the building to prepare for your arrival. You have a new mattress, several towels and clean bedclothes.”

“How nice of them. I must thank them.”

“I’ll leave you now to settle in. The children will arrive at seven-thirty on Wednesday. I trust you will be ready for them?”

“Yes, Mr. Sullivan.”

“A lamp is on your desk with a box of matches next to it.” For a moment, he studied the bruise on her cheek and her arm. “Miss Cunningham, may I send our cook, a fine woman, to help you with your wounds?”

“Thank you, but I’ll take care of them myself. I’m very tired.”

He nodded. “Then I’ll wish you good-night.”

“Good night, Mr. Sullivan.”

His hand brushed her arm as he moved to the door. At the contact, he stopped and glanced at her as if trying to decide whether he should apologize, and then he turned away quickly, opened the door and closed it behind him.

A woman could fall in love with a handsome, caring man like that without trying, but not Annie. No, she’d learned a great deal about handsome men and ugly ones, and she didn’t trust either. With a shake of her head, she told herself to forget her past. It was over, and she was ready to start her new life, preferably without any men, handsome or ugly.

She surveyed the amazing place to which her deception had led her. For a moment, being in a schoolroom made her feel an utter lack of confidence until she reminded herself she was no longer Annie MacAllister and straightened her posture. She was Miss Matilda Cunningham, the composed and educated schoolteacher of Trail’s End.

Well, she would be for at least a few days, until someone discovered she was not Miss Matilda Cunningham. During that time, she’d be warm and fed and safe, which was enough for now. With that bit of comfort, she picked up the lamp in her left hand, pushed the valise ahead of her with her foot and entered her bedroom.

It was tiny, but it belonged to her, at least temporarily. Even as her muscles protested, she turned slowly around the small space and smiled. It was hers alone! The narrow bed had been pushed against the rough, wooden inside wall. Two hooks hung beside the window, and a dresser stood next to the door out to the privy. When she placed the oil lamp on the dresser, the light wavered. Was it low on oil? Slipping her shoes off, she thought a sensible young woman would go to bed before it got so dark she would need a lamp.

But a sensible young woman would not find herself in a position like this. Annie lowered herself onto the bed and contemplated the fix she’d landed herself in when she’d assumed Matilda’s identity.

No, a sensible young woman would not find herself teaching school when she didn’t know how to read or write.

Chapter Two

John Matthew Sullivan snapped the reins over the heads of his horses as they trotted down the short road between the schoolhouse and his home. He’d chosen the pair carefully—they had exactly the right stride to pull the surrey he’d had built to his specifications. Painstaking and cautious described him well, characteristics passed on to him by his father.

But for him, the value of the animals lay in their magnificence and spirit, the sheer beauty of their matched paces and movement.

Beauty. His thoughts came back to the new teacher. Although he’d investigated her references carefully and heartily recommended Miss Cunningham to the school board, tonight he hadn’t felt completely confident about the young woman who was to teach his daughter and the children of the community. She’d written fine letters, had exceptional recommendations and excellent grades from the teachers’ college. However, this evening she’d behaved oddly, seeming uncertain and confused.

Of course, she’d just been in an accident, one in which another young woman had died. She had a wound on her arm. Bruises, cuts and blood covered her.

Small wonder she was distressed and flustered. She was understandably upset from her experience. So what flaw could she possess that now nagged at him?

He slowed to allow an armadillo to saunter across the road and considered the question.

She was too young and too pretty to be a teacher. Under the grime—in spite of it, actually—she was very attractive with thick, dark hair and what he thought to be rich, brown eyes. As a respectable widower and pillar of the community, he shouldn’t have noticed that. As a man, how could he not?

Of course, Miss Cunningham wasn’t as lovely as his dear wife, Celeste, had been, but even with the dark bruise on her cheek, he could see her features were regular and, well, appealing. But definitely not as fine as Celeste’s had been. His wife, alas, had been a fragile woman. Miss Cunningham appeared to be the opposite.

Even with the stains on it, her dress had been modest and ladylike. Her speech had been clear and precise, the tone well modulated. Neat and clean and a good example for the girls in her class. That was strictly all that mattered about the exterior of a teacher.

But she seemed so very young. Although Miss Cunningham had written she was twenty-three, she didn’t look over twenty. Of course, there are people like that, who look younger than they are in actual years.

Miss Cunningham seemed like a moral young woman, not the kind of young woman who flirted with men like the previous teacher. Twice when he’d approached Miss Cunningham, she’d pulled away. She’d seemed almost afraid of him, but that was to be expected from an honorable young woman.

And yet something bothered him, something besides her looks and age. He couldn’t nail down what it was. It had something to do with her reaction when he mentioned that the students were eager to start class. Surprise, almost shock. Even her confusion after the accident couldn’t explain that to his satisfaction.

He’d visit with her tomorrow and see if he could discover what troubled him. He’d allow her to teach for a few weeks. If she didn’t measure up to the standards of the school board, well, actually, they could do nothing. It had taken months to find a teacher of quality like Miss Cunningham. No one wanted to come to Trail’s End. The school board had been fortunate to find someone who needed a position as much as they needed a teacher. It would be impossible to find another this year.

“Buenas noches, Señor Sullivan,” Ramon said as his boss drove into the stable.

“Ramon, what are you doing out here so late?” He stepped out of the surrey and tossed the reins to the man. “You should be home with your family.”

“Gracias, señor. El viejo fell today. I made the old man rest.”

“Duffy fell?” What was he going to do about Duffy? After he was thrown from a horse last year, John had given him the easiest job on the ranch to keep him safe. He might need to hire another man to take the load off Ramon and keep an eye on Duffy.

“Tried to put a bridle up on a hook. Lost his balance and fell off the bench he was standing on.”

“I’ll check on him,” John said. “I still don’t expect you to work these long hours. Understand?”

“Sí, señor.”

“After you finish with the horses, go home to your family.”

As he spoke, John started toward the small room in the back of the stable where Duffy Smith lived. He preferred the room in the stable to sharing the bunkhouse with the younger, rowdier hands.

The elderly man had taught him everything he knew about caring for animals. He’d always worked hard. Too proud to rest at seventy, he still expected to do his share. That caused John no end of trouble and worry, but also made him proud. He’d probably be exactly the same in thirty-five years.

The room was barely large enough for a narrow bed, small table and a dresser. A lamp glowed in the corner. Duffy’s skinny body could barely be seen under the colorful quilt Celeste had made for him,

“All right, Duffy. What’s this I hear about you?” John held up his hand as the older man struggled to get up. “Don’t try to get out of bed. Stay there.”

Duffy’s expression was sheepish behind his full beard and thick mustache, both streaked with gray. “I’m fine.” He shook his head. “Stupid bench threw me, boss.”

Just like Duffy to blame it on the bench. He hated getting old as much as John hated watching it happen. “Do you have everything you need?”

“The boys took real good care of me. I’m going to have a good night’s sleep, and then I’ll be back to work in the morning.”

John shook his head. “You are the most stubborn man I know. Would it hurt you to rest for a few more days?”

Duffy glared at him. “Yes, boss, it would. I’m tough.”

“Stubborn old coot.” John shook his head. “I give up.” He turned toward the door and said over his shoulder, “Take care of yourself.”

“Always do, boss,” Duffy retorted.

Once out of the building, John headed across the stable yard to enter the house. He climbed the stairs and with a few strides down the hall, he entered his daughter’s room. He knew that with the trip to town and helping the new teacher to settle in, he’d be home too late to see Elizabeth before bedtime, to tuck her in and hear her prayers. But he wanted to see her anyway.

Silently, he moved across the floor until he stood next to the bed and watched her sleep, the moonlight illuminating her innocent face. With a smile, he leaned down, kissed her check and smoothed the blanket over her shoulders.

Elizabeth had always been more his daughter than Celeste’s. With her endless energy and constant chatter, she’d worn her mother out, but he’d loved riding with the child, reading to her and caring for her as she grew up.

How have I been so blessed to have this beautiful child?

As he readied himself for bed, he thought again of the new schoolteacher, unable to rid himself of the nagging doubt. How to handle the situation, to assure the community—and himself—that Miss Cunningham had been the correct choice, even though she’d also been the only choice?

He’d keep an eye on her until he felt comfortable. For his daughter’s sake, for the sake of all the children in the community, he would make sure all was right with the new schoolteacher. After all, he’d accepted the challenge to find a teacher. He’d hired her. He was responsible.

He was a Sullivan.

Pain—excruciating pain—and the sensation of turning and twisting, of lurching and rocking racked Annie. She grabbed the side of the coach and reached out for Matilda.

But the young woman wasn’t there. With a sob, Annie woke up and attempted to sort out where she was and what had happened, why her right arm, her head and both legs—in fact, her entire body—hurt so much.

It was early morning. She knew that by the tendril of sunlight breaking through darkness to illuminate a narrow strip of ceiling. In the distance, a rooster crowed. In the dim light, she could make out something dark that stiffened her right sleeve. When she rubbed the cloth between her fingers, it crinkled. Blood, she realized.

Her arm throbbed. The blue skirt had wrapped itself around her legs. She shrieked in pain as she tried to untangle herself.

Most amazingly, she was alone on a clean bed in a room with white walls, spotless white walls. No sound of raucous celebration came from the other side of the wall.

“Oh, Lord,” she whispered when she realized where she was and why. If this wasn’t a moment to pray, even if she didn’t expect any response, she didn’t know what was. “What should I do, Lord?”

Her stomach growled—not surprising since she’d last eaten with Matilda almost a day ago.

How could life change so quickly and completely? It felt peculiar to know that the driver of the coach had buried Annie MacAllister out there, but here Annie sat in Matilda’s clothes, on her bed, in her schoolhouse and with her name. Annie couldn’t change any of that.

She looked around and realized she’d slept exactly where she had fallen across the bed last night, fully clothed, not even pulling the sheet over her. Her stomach reminded her again that she hadn’t eaten anything before she’d dropped into bed.

Shivering in the cool morning air, she stood and stretched before she padded into the kitchen barefoot. She hated the thought of having to shove her feet into those sturdy little shoes. Why couldn’t Matilda’s feet have been just a bit larger?

That thought sounded so ungrateful. “I truly am appreciative, Matilda,” she whispered. “Thank you.” Then she shuddered. Taking the shoes off the feet of a dead woman had been one of the worst things she’d ever had to do.

In the cupboard above the stove, she found a can of tomatoes and an empty cracker tin. The other cupboard was bare except for several dead crickets and a shriveled piece of something Annie couldn’t identify but wasn’t hungry enough to try.

She’d eaten less than tomatoes for breakfast before, but at least she’d had a can opener then. Now she didn’t. Certainly no one expected her to go without food, although never having been a teacher before, she didn’t know. She thought Matilda would have brought food with her if that had been a requirement. Perhaps she could find Mr. Sullivan’s house and ask him.

She picked up the bucket by the door of her bedroom, carried it outside and filled it from the pump in the yard, moving carefully. She saw no firewood so went back inside, took off her clothing and washed in cold water. Nothing unusual there. When she finished scrubbing off the grime and carefully cleaning the wounds on her arm and head, she put her bloodstained clothing in the water to soak.

Then she turned toward the valise. She hadn’t had time the previous day to do more than pull a skirt and basque from the suitcase. Today she needed to see what else was inside. She took a deep breath. She did not look forward to exploring Matilda’s personal effects. Taking on the identity of a dead woman had been more difficult, complicated and emotional than she’d ever considered.

Inside were two dark skirts, simple and austere with a pleat down the back, like the one she wore. One was brown and the other black. She pulled out two matching basques, each with new white collars and worn but spotless cuffs, and hung them next to the skirts. Under them, Annie found a lovely white jersey with a short braided front and jet beads around the high neck. For special events, Annie decided as she stroked and savored the softness.

Then came a black shawl, a pair of knitted slippers, several pairs of black cotton stockings, five handkerchiefs, a few more hairpins, a sewing kit and a small box. Reluctantly, she opened the little package. Inside she found a silver watch to pin on the front of her basque. When Annie ran her finger over the engraved vines, tears began to slide down her cheeks. This must have been the teacher’s prized possession.

She set the watch down and forced herself to continue. In the bottom of the bag were two books, a notebook filled with writing and many little pictures and another letter. Annie was completely overwhelmed. She’d never had so many nice things. She’d never owned cotton stockings or a cashmere jersey or any jewelry.

Annie put on the black skirt, buttoned the basque up the front and then pulled on the slippers. With no mirror in the little room, she smoothed her hair back into a bun as best she could.

Then she wandered into the empty schoolroom. She didn’t want to be there—and yet she did, very much. She was curious and excited and more than a little afraid with absolutely no idea how she would teach twelve children what she herself did not know. But she felt safe here. She would soon have wood and coal and perhaps something to eat.

She touched the books on her desk and opened one. What did those black marks stand for? She ran her hand down the page as if she could absorb their meaning. The paper felt rough and cold. The circles and lines and odd curlicues printed there fascinated and confounded her. Here and there she recognized a J and an M.

A yearning filled Annie. She’d always wanted to go to school. She remembered her mother telling her she was smart when she was just a child.

But after her mother died, her father said educating a woman was a waste. After all, he’d said, what more does a woman need to know than how to clean and cook and sew? She didn’t need to be able to read to take care of a man.

That was about all Annie needed to know. As her father drank and gambled more, she’d had to work to support them. Only seven years old, she started cleaning houses. If she didn’t earn enough for his whiskey, he beat her until she learned to leave the money on the porch and sleep outside.

Then he’d killed a man in a drunken rage, was hanged and the house was sold to satisfy his debts. When no one would hire George MacAllister’s daughter, she realized she had two choices: starve to death or become a prostitute. She chose to work at Ruby’s, a brothel.

She brought her attention back to the book. Wouldn’t it be marvelous to learn? To read books about distant places and exciting people and thrilling adventures, to be able to read aloud to children or silently to herself, to write letters or a story?

Oh, it sounded more wonderful than any fantasy…but that was all it was. Soon, very soon, the school board would find out she couldn’t read or write and nothing would save her. From what she’d seen, she didn’t believe Mr. Sullivan would be kind or forgiving when he found out about her deception.

“Excuse me,” came a sweet voice from outside as the door opened.

“Yes?” Annie turned to look down on a tiny, fairy-like creature with a heavy basket. Behind the child stood a Mexican man. She straightened and walked toward the little girl.

Light hair curled from beneath the hood of the child’s green plaid coat. She looked up at Annie with enormous, intelligent blue eyes and a smile that sparkled with humor.

“Good morning, Miss Cunningham. I’m Elizabeth Sullivan. This is Ramon Ortiz.”

The child struggled across the threshold, carrying an enormous basket. Annie would have taken it from her, but Mr. Ortiz caught her eye and shook his head, smiling.

Elizabeth dropped her burden by the door to the kitchen. “My father sent us with some things for you. He thought you might be hungry. And we brought you a blanket because the nights are cold.”

Annie hadn’t noticed the cold the night before because she’d been exhausted. How lovely to have a blanket. “Thank you.”

Mr. Ortiz followed Elizabeth and placed a bundle on one of the narrow tables.

“How old are you, Elizabeth?” Annie settled on a bench so she and Elizabeth would be face-to-face.

“I’m almost eight, Miss Cunningham.”

“What do you like most about school?”

“Reading. I love to read. And to write.”

Of course the daughter of the man who hired her would love to do the things Annie couldn’t. “Do you like to do sums?”

Elizabeth grimaced. “No, ma’am, but I will try. My father says women should be able to add and subtract.”

“Of course we should.” That was one thing she could do, thanks to keeping track of how much the men who frequented the brothel owed. That and her piano playing had made her popular with the other women there.

The little girl marched into Annie’s bedroom to spread the blanket on her bed, tugging on it to make sure it hung squarely. She stopped to brush a little dust from the dresser and pushed the outside door more firmly shut. The child acted with such grace and helpfulness, as if she were an adult, that Annie smiled.

“I asked Ramon to place the food in your cupboard.” Elizabeth frowned as she looked around the tiny bedroom. “I don’t know why you couldn’t have curtains or a pretty quilt.”

“Thank you, but please don’t worry about it, Elizabeth. This is the nicest room I’ve ever had.”

Elizabeth’s eyes grew round, but she was too polite to ask Annie how that could be. “My father and I hope you’ll enjoy Trail’s End. All the students are excited to meet you tomorrow. Most of us like school a great deal.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth. I look forward to meeting them.” Annie walked into the classroom. “Would you tell me something about each student?” She congratulated herself on sounding so much like a teacher—or at least like her concept of a teacher.

The child stopped to think a moment before she started counting off the students on her fingers. “There are the Sundholm twins, Bertha and Clara. They’re only six so just babies. This is their first year in school. Tommy Tripp and I are in the second grade. We can both read and are learning cursive. Do you have a nice hand, Miss Cunningham?”

Annie looked down at her fingers. They were long and thin but covered with calluses from hard work and cuts from the accident. Her palms were red and rough. Why had the child asked if she had a nice hand? And what was cursive? What did it have to do with her hands?

When Annie didn’t answer, Elizabeth continued, “Rose Tripp and Samuel Johnson and Frederick Meyer are in fourth grade. The Bryan brothers are all much older but still in the fifth reader because they miss a lot of school to help their father on the farm. There are three of them, but you won’t see much of Wilber because he’s almost sixteen and really strong. Martha Norton and Ida Johnson are in seventh grade. They know everything.” She stopped and thought, her head tilted. “I could make you a list if that would help.”

“I can tell you’ll be a great help to me.”

“Doña Elizabeth, I’ve finished putting the food away.” Mr. Ortiz came into the schoolroom, carrying the empty basket. His voice was soft and respectful with a lovely lilt to it.

“Thank you, Mr. Ortiz,” Annie said.

“I’m Ramon, Señorita Cunningham.” He bowed his head. “Mr. Sullivan said he told you in his letters that each family contributes a wagonload of wood once each term. They stack it in the shed behind the schoolhouse.” He nodded his head in that direction. “Mr. Sullivan sent me with a load so you’ll have some when you need it. And I put a small pile next to the stove.”

“Thank you, again.”

“The shed’s where students who ride put their saddles. They tie their horses on the rail outside it,” Elizabeth explained as she moved toward the door. “Please excuse me. My father expects me home right away.” She started out before she turned to say, “Oh, and we’ll bring you a loaf of bread every week from our cook.” She smiled. “I’m so excited about school tomorrow. It’s been a long time since we had a teacher.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth. See you tomorrow.”

When they left, Annie entered the kitchen, ravenous. On the table lay a can opener. She opened one cupboard to discover it filled with tins, dried meat and a loaf of bread. A lower cabinet held a sack of oatmeal and another of potatoes. In the other cabinet were two plates, three glasses, a cup, knife, fork and spoon plus some bowls. What luxury!

The crickets and dried fruit were gone.

She felt incredibly fortunate, blessed with an abundance of belongings and a feeling of freedom, even though she knew it would last only a short while—a few days at most.