“There. What’s next?”
The lanternlight caught in her dark pupils. She was breathing heavily from exertion. Theodore wondered what the law said about mature fathers making advances on their children’s under-age teachers. With forced slowness he closed the space between himself and Clippa, nudging Linnea aside with an elbow. He slipped two fingers between the cinch and the horse’s hide.
“This could’ve been tighter. She starts runnin’, and you’ll find yourself upside down, little missy.”
“Theodore, I told you once, don’t call me that!”
He casually rolled a glance her way with his fingers still beneath the girth.
“Yeah. Miss Brandonberg, then.”
Her eyes blazed brighter and her fists clenched harder. “And don’t call me that either. For heaven’s sake, I’m not your teacher. Can’t you call me Linnea?”
Calmly he untied her knot and tightened it.
“Probably not. Wouldn’t be seemly — not when you’re the schoolmarm. Around here teachers ain... are never called by their first name.”
“Oh, that’s absolutely ridiculous.”
He turned to face her, reached around her shoulder, and sent her heart racing. But he only came away with the bridle from the edge of the stall behind her.
“What’re you so riled up about?” he asked coolly.
“I’m not riled up!”
“Oh?” With exasperating calmness he moved to Clippa’s head. “Guess I was mistaken. Here. You want to learn the rest?”
She glared at the metal bit resting across his palm, then whisked it up irately.
“Just show me what to do.”
One last time he smiled at her charming display of temper, then showed her how to place the bit in Clippa’s mouth, adjust the headstall, thread the mare’s ears through the browband, and buckle the throatlatch.
“All right, she’s ready to ride.”
To his surprise, Linnea hung her head and said nothing. He studied her round shoulders and peeked around them. “What’s wrong?”
Slowly she lifted her eyes. “Why do we fight all the time, Theodore?”
His throat seemed to close and blood surged through parts of his body that had no business coming to life around a girl of her age.
“I don’t know.”
Like hell you don’t, Westgaard, he thought.
“I try very hard not to get angry with you, but it never seems to work. I always end up spitting like a cat whenever I’m around you.”
He slipped his hands into his rear pockets and did his damndest to look platonic. “I don’t mind.” He certainly didn’t. Being close to a riled Linnea was a good bit safer than being around one like this. Disconsolately she studied the rein draped over her palm, her lashes dropped like fans to her smooth cheeks.
“I wish I didn’t.”
Everything hung too heavy and silent between them. He gripped his own buttocks inside his pockets and tensed his leg muscles. When he knew he was in danger of touching her, he had to say something — anything to keep him from his own folly.
“You want to ride her?” He nodded toward Clippa.
Dejectedly, Linnea answered, “I guess not. Not tonight.”
“Well, you better get up once, so I can adjust the stirrups for you.”
For several seconds she stood still, silent. Finally she turned and reached up for the saddle horn. It was a long stretch, and to add to the difficulty her skirts got in the way. She hitched them up and hopped on one foot, making several false starts while Theodore fought the urge to put his hands on her backside and give her a boost. Persevering, she finally swung astride. But her skirts were caught, binding her legs. When she tried to stand and free them, her feet fell two inches short of the stirrups. She sat, waiting, looking down on Theodore’s head as he adjusted first one stirrup, then walked around and adjusted the other.
She wished she were more experienced so she’d know how to handle the feelings that seemed to be springing up restlessly within her. She wanted to touch his gleaming hair, lift his chin and study his eyes at close range, hear his laugh and his voice speaking gently of what mattered most to him. She wanted to hear her name on his lips. But above all, she wanted to be touched by him. Just once, to find out if it would be as heady as she imagined.
He shortened the stirrups as slowly as possible, wanting to prolong their time together, wishing there were other favors he could do for her. It had been years since he’d felt this compulsion to be chivalrous. He’d thought it was something a man feels only when he’s young and raring. What a shock to experience it again at his age. He felt her gaze following him as he moved about the horse, but controlled the urge to look up. To do so would be disastrous. But when he could think of nothing more to do for her, he stood staring at her delicate foot. How long had it been since he’d wanted to touch a woman this badly? But she wasn’t a woman. Was she? Suppose he touched her — a simple touch, just once — what harm could come of that?
He reached for her ankle. It was warm and firm through the black leather of her new, sensible boots. His thumb bracketed her heel tendons, rubbing gently. There was no mistaking the touch for anything but what it was — a lingering caress. Nor was there any mistaking the fact that she sat with bated breath, waiting for him to look up, to go one step farther, to lift his hands and help her down. He thought of her name — Linnea — the name he refused to allow himself to call her lest it break down barriers better left unbroken. If he said it, if he lifted his eyes, he was certain of what would follow. Mistakes.
“Theodore,” she whispered.
Abruptly, he dropped her foot and stepped back, realizing his folly. He stuffed his hands into his back pockets. When he looked up, his face was just as impersonal as usual.
“You’re all set now. Make sure you put the saddle back in the tack room after you ride. I’ll keep Clippa in the near pasture so you won’t have to run clear to Dickinson to find her.”
His attempt to lighten the atmosphere failed. There was too much burning between them.
“Thank you.” Her voice held a faint reediness.
He nodded and turned toward the tack room with the pretext of searching for something, afraid if he stayed he’d reach up for her narrow waist to help her dismount and end up giving in to other urges.
By the time he returned she was removing the saddle.
“Here, I’ll take that. You go on up to the house now. You probably got schoolwork to do yet.”
When she was gone he turned Clippa out, then returned the saddle to its proper place. After throwing it over the sawhorse he stood a long time staring at it. He touched the curved leather It was warm where she’d been sitting.
She’s only eighteen and she’s your boy’s teacher. Closer to his age than to yours, Teddy, you fool. What would a girl like her want with a man damn near old enough to be her father?
A short time later, in her room beneath the rafters, Linnea prepared for bed with an odd feeling, like she’d swallowed a goose egg. Had she only imagined it all day long with him? No, she hadn’t. He’d been aware of it, too. In the schoolroom. Then again when she’d watched him wash at the well. And tonight in the bam when he’d held her ankle.
It was awful.
It was awesome.
It was — she grew more certain by the hour — desire.
She blew out the lantern and went to bed to consider it. Flat on her back, she tucked the blankets painfully tight over her breasts, as if to keep the feeling from escaping. She could feel her heartbeat, heavy and fast against the strictures. She conjured up Theodore’s naked back as he’d leaned to throw water on his shoulders... his chest when he’d turned around with water dripping into the that of dark hair... his thick hair as he’d moved about the horse refusing to look up and meet her eyes.
The desire centered in her nether regions.
He’d felt it, too. That was why he was afraid to look up, to say her name, to answer when she’d spoken.
She closed h
er eyes and subtracted eighteen from thirty-four. Sixteen. He had lived and experienced almost twice as much as she. There were so many things she wanted to know and be for him that by virtue of her immaturity she could not know or be.
Suddenly she was smitten by a strong wave of jealousy for his advanced age. Stubborn man that he was, he would probably never follow his instincts. Distraught, she rolled up on one elbow and gazed down at the white blot of her pillow in the dark.
“Teddy?” she queried in a soft yearning voice. Then she embraced the pillow tenderly and lowered her lips to his.
10
LINNEA’S LETTERS TURNED UP immediate invitations to her students’ homes, and within the week she began her visits. She chose Ulmer and Helen Westgaard’s first because they had more children in school than any other family; also, because Ulmer was Theodore’s brother. She’d developed a growing curiosity about anything relating to Theodore.
From the moment she stepped into their kitchen she sensed love present. The house was much the same as Theodore’s, but far gayer and a lot noisier, with six children. The three oldest boys were out in the fields helping their father when Linnea arrived, the younger children helping their mother in the kitchen. But to Linnea’s surprise, the field crew all came in for supper with their guest.
Eating, she observed, was as serious a business here as it was at Theodore’s. They talked and laughed before the meal, and after. But while they ate — they ate!
However, several times during the course of the meal she looked up to find the oldest boy, Bill, studying her closely. Boy? He was no boy. He was a full-grown, strapping man of perhaps twenty-one or so, and he gave her a most disconcerting amount of overt scrutinization. His eighteen-year-old sister, Doris, also lived at home, though she was engaged and planning a January wedding. It seemed weddings, like education, had to be put off until after harvest season. Raymond and Tony, Linnea’s missing students, treated her with diffidence, as though forewarned that she was displeased about their not coming to school. The two youngest, Frances and Sonny, smiled and giggled whenever she caught their eye, and she suspected they felt highly honored to have the teacher choose their home first.
She delayed bringing up the subject of the school calendar until after dessert. When she did, she introduced it calmly, stated her case, and left the subject open for discussion.
There was no discussion. She was told politely, but in no uncertain terms, that the boys would come to school when the wheat was in.
The family all came out into the yard to bid her good-bye, but Bill left the others and appeared at Clippa’s head to detain Linnea.
“Miss Brandonberg?”
“Oh... did I forget something?”
“No. I just didn’t want you to think it’s anything personal against you, them keeping the boys out to help with harvesting. It’s always been that way, you know?”
“Yes, I know. But that doesn’t make it right. The boys need the full school year, just like the girls do.”
Linnea was so tired of going over the same argument. But just when she expected it to continue, Bill seemed to forget all about it. He stood looking up at her with one hand on Clippa’s bridle, his attractive green eyes issuing a message of undisguised interest.
“Do you dance?” he asked.
For a moment she was too startled to answer. “D... do I dance?”
“Yeah — you know, one foot, two foot.”
She smiled. “I... well, yes, a little.”
“Good, then I’ll see you at one barn or another when the threshers come. There’s always lots of dances then.”
In her experience there had never before been anyone who so blatantly showed his interest. She grew flustered by his open regard and the fact that his family looked on, waiting for her to ride away. Frances and Sonny were giggling again, heads close together. Linnea stammered, “Y... yes, I... guess you will. Well, good night then.”
Riding home, with the night air cooling her cheeks, she considered Bill Westgaard. Sun-streaked blond hair, eyes as green as spring clover, a rather upturned nose, and a smile revealing slightly crooked teeth. He was a curious combination of boyish features and manly brawn.
So what did you think of him? Handsome?
A little.
Appealing?
Somewhat.
Bold?
Bolder than any other fellow I’ve met before.
So will you dance with him?
Perhaps.
But when she imagined it, it was Theodore with whom she danced.
Her intentions had been to leave the Severt home until last, hoping to give Allen time to become more cooperative at school so that her own feelings wouldn’t be negative when she paid the visit. But Allen continued instigating more classroom disruptions than anyone else. During school prayers he invariably created a disturbance by tapping his pencil or his boot against the desk. He pestered the younger children by boldly snatching their cookies and taking bites, then calling them cry babies before giving them back — if he gave them back at all. As if sensing that Frances and Roseanne were two of Linnea’s favorites, Allen singled them out to persecute more than any of the others. He taunted Frances, calling her a dummy, and sometimes pulled her skirt up to peek at her underpants. He turned the wood block on the girl’s privy door while Frances was inside, and stuck a garter snake through the moon-shaped cutout. The resulting fit of hysteria had Allen beaming with joy for the remainder of the afternoon. He looked satisfied each time he managed to rile one of his classmates, or the teacher. And he was very good at making people angry.
Linnea was dreading the visit to Allen’s house, but decided to get it over with immediately. She left school early on the day of home visits, so it was well before suppertime when she arrived at the Severt home. To her surprise, Allen came out and asked to see to Clippa. Reverend Severt was busy in his study, but Linnea enjoyed a pleasant visit with his wife while she made the final preparations for the meal.
Lillian Severt was a meticulously groomed woman with a neat finger-waved upsweep of pure black hair, held in place by unadorned tortoise-shell combs. She had flawless ivory skin and a face that was marred only by her upturned nose with its rather overlarge nostrils. But one tended to forget her nose in view of her clear, hazel eyes and square-set mouth and chin. Instead of the customary starched cotton housedress, she wore a stylish garment of ribbed amber faille with a white collar of pierced, embroidered organdy. And earrings — nobody else around Alamo wore earrings. Hers were small gold apple blossoms, with tiny citrine gems centered in each. Unlike most farm wives who often smelled of homemade lye soap and whatever they were having for supper, Lillian Severt smelted of her bureau, of spearmint and tansy and saxifrage and whatever other fragrant herbs she had mixed into her potpourri.
Her house was different, too. The front parlor had a bound carpet covering most of the floor. The kitchen had a cabinet with a self-contained flour sifter. And there was a formal dining room with built-in glass-fronted china closets and a colonnaded archway dividing it from the front parlor.
The cherry-wood table was covered with ecru lace, the food served in covered tureens, the napkins bound with Belgian lace, and when Lillian Severt took her chair, she left her cobbler apron in the kitchen.
Though Allen was a hellion at school, at home it was another story. Around his parents he was so polite as to appear almost ingratiating, even pulling out his mother’s chair as the meal began. He bowed his head reverently when grace was being said, displayed impeccable table manners, and his voice lost all its schooltime flippancy.
To Linnea’s surprise, when supper was finished Martin Severt ordered, “Allen, now you help Libby clear the table, then the two of you are excused.”
In a pleasantly modulated voice, Mrs. Severt countered, “Now, dear, you know doing dishes isn’t a man’s work. Libby will do them.”
Reverend Severt’s fingers tightened on his cup handle, his eyes confronted his wife’s, and for a moment tension was palpa
ble in the room.
Then Allen squeezed his mother’s shoulder, kissed her cheek, and offered, “Supper was de-lish. Nobody makes pumpkin pie like you do, Mother.”
She laughed, patted his hand, and ordered, “Off with you, you flatterer.”
Before he could escape, his father interjected, “Did you fill the woodbox when you came home from school?”
Allen was already heading out of the room. “Didn’t have to. It was already full.” His footsteps sounded on the stairs leading up from the front parlor, presumably to his room. When he was gone Libby cleared the table, then disappeared, too.
“Would you like more coffee?” Mrs. Severt inquired, refilling all three cups. A quiet fell upon the room. Linnea tried to screw up her courage to broach the subject foremost in her mind. She took a swallow of coffee and it seemed to drop twenty feet before it reached her nervous stomach.
“Mr. and Mrs. Severt... ” The minute the words were out Linnea wondered if she should have addressed him as Reverend. She pushed the doubt aside and did her job, unpleasant though it was at the moment. “I wonder if we might talk for a while about Allen.”
Mrs. Severt beamed.
Reverend Severt frowned.
“What about Allen?” he inquired.
Linnea planned her words carefully. “Allen seems very different here at home than he does at school. He... well, he doesn’t seem to get along with the other children very well, and I was wondering if you might offer some insight as to why not, and what we might do to help him.”
“We?” Mrs. Severt repeated, raising one eyebrow. “Allen has no trouble getting along anywhere else. If he’s having difficulties, perhaps it’s the school’s fault.”
The implication was clear: school meant Miss Brandonberg. While the teacher was still adjusting to the rebuff, Allen’s mother went on. “I’m interested in what you see as... getting along.” Her very inflection made the phrase sound suspect.
“Socially, it means he doesn’t attempt to fraternize with the others, to join in the games, make friends. Academically, he doesn’t always conform to the rules. He tends to... to ignore instructions and do things his own way.”