There was no answer.
He started to run towards the center of town, his mind creating horrible images of what could have happened. Anything was possible in this untamed country. Tales abounded of people who were killed by wild beasts or were drowned by fierce waters or simply vanished, never to be seen again.
Perhaps she had run away, unable to face all that had happened, unable to face her own husband. On some level, she must still blame him for their loss, for everything that had occurred since they came west, She had to blame him. God knows, he blamed himself. There were days he felt he could no longer live with the guilt weighing him down, tearing him apart.
He should never have left her alone. He should have let Mrs. Hawkins look after her. No. That wouldn't have been right. He should have stayed with her himself. He should have been brave enough to face the accusing hurt that was bound to cross her features, her exquisite features.
From somewhere he heard her laughter, distinctive, musical. HE had almost forgotten the sound until the evening before, she had laughed again, the glorious notes bringing warmth and beauty back into his life.
He listened, hoping to hear it again. Had he imagined it? Had he so wished to hear her voice that eh conjured the cherished tones?
Again he heard her laugh, this time joined by an unfamiliar cackle. He turned in the direction of the sounds, and stopped, sure he must be imagining the sight before him.
Two figures were silhouetted in the dusk, lit from behind, by the oil lamps of Zollers' Fine Dry Merchandise. They were so close they were all but touching. Moving closer, he realized one of the figures was his wife, radiant in her Philadelphia city cloak. The other was Mrs. Zoller. His wife had just said something, and Mrs. Zoller barked a dry laugh before turning towards him.
"Why, Mr. Graham!" Mrs. Zoller was smiling, her voice rich with coquettish delight. The effect was unsettling. "Your charming wife has come up with clever ideas for our store. Such ideas! Why we're bound to make… well!" Lowering her voice, she touched Emma's shoulder. "Mr. Graham, I've been thinking about something. Your wife would make such a wonderful teacher for our children. I understand she was quite the schoolmarm back in Philadelphia. That is just what this town needs, some city polish to take the coarse edge off some of our children. Not every boy is as accomplished as my Ebenezer. As a favor to all of us, would you allow her to reopen the Overton Falls School?
Emma looked at him with such an expression of hope, of tenderness, that he felt something tighten in his chest. All he could do was nod. All he could do was get her back home as soon as possible to find out how she had tamed Mrs. Zoller in a single day.
Six
"YOU DID WHAT?" MICHAEL asked again, convinced that he must have heard her wrong.
Emma looked up at him, rubbing her cold hands over the new fire. The heat of the flames caused the long strands of hair surrounding her face to lift and float. He reached forward to fasten a long curl behind her ear, not wishing it to catch a spark,
"I simply appealed to Mrs. Zoller's only two weak spots: her love of money and her innate snobbishness."
"And that bought you her support in the reopening the school?"
"Sort of." She grinned, and he watched her face as he pulled up a chair by the fire. She was full of a gentle confidence he had not seen for a very long time. He wanted simply to watch her, to see her sit calmly without the darkness that had been there before.
Emma felt the pull of his stare, knowing he was observing her every move. She longed to touch him, to be physically near him. Without warning she stood up and promptly sat on his lap.
After his initial grunt of surprise, he adjusted her, pulling her closer, wrapping his arm around her back. It felt so natural, so complete.
For a moment she leaned against his chest, her eyes closed in contentment.
"You're not sleeping a wink until you tell me everything, Em," he whispered.
"Mmmm," she sighed, longing to stay forever in his embrace. Her arm went around his shoulder.
"I'm going to stand up now. I'm giving you fair warning. You're going to fall onto the cold, hard floor unless you satisfy my curiosity."
"You're beginning to sound like Mrs. Zoller." She refused to open her eyes.
"That does it." With startling swiftness he stood. Emma, who had, indeed, relaxed into a drowsy tranquility, gasped and clutched frantically to avoid falling.
But his hold on her had never loosened. Instead, he cradled her tightly against his own body.
"Oh, Em. Don't you know I'd never let you fall?"
She reached up and touched his face, rubbing her thumb lightly along his cheekbone. "I know."
For a moment he simply looked at her, his remarkable eyes drinking every detail of her face. She returned the gaze, bold, unblinking, savoring the features she could never grow weary of, never forget.
Slowly, his mouth touched hers, tentatively at first. His lips were warm, molding with ethereal perfection to her own.
Her hand slipped down and cupped the back of his neck, and she felt as if she were floating on a cloud. The other hand stroked his upper arm, the knotted muscles now beginning to tremble.
With her still ensconced in his powerful hold, he carried her into the other room, through the calico-draped doorway and to the bed. He lowered her to the mattress carefully, not giving up his possession, remaining so close she could feel the heat of his body.
He trailed soft kisses from the corners of her mouth, along the line of her jaw, down her throat.
"Emma." His voice caressed her name. A magical, honeyed warmth seemed to course through her veins at that tone.
Her fingers began to unfasten the buttons on his shirt, clumsy in their haste. It was as if her fingers moved on their own, with no thought on her part. With every button she found it harder to stop trembling. She had to feel him, to experience his skin against her own. It was necessary to her now as breathing.
He worked at releasing her, too, from her clothing. Finally her shoulder emerged, then the other shoulder was free.
She gasped at the cold of the room, a room where the fire had not yet been lit.
In an instant, though, the chill had vanished, replaced by the fevered touch of his skin against hers.
His mouth descended on its fragile path, across her collarbone, then slowly, deliciously, covering her breasts. Her hands gripped his back, as if to pull him ever closer, as if to never let him go.
More clothes fell away, and they both ignored the sound of tearing cloth. Nothing else mattered. Only to get closer, ever closer.
She opened her eyes to take in the sight of him, just for a moment. He was perfect, in every way perfect. Skin glistening in the dark, the sculpted beauty of his form held suspended for her to see. His eyes were open too, and he held his breath as his gaze encompassed her. And they were again touching, stroking, becoming one.
As it was always meant to be. As it would always be.
They lay entangled under the quilt. He smoothed her hair in a slow, rhythmic motion. She felt his mouth curve into a smile.
"Well?" she prodded, nudging him gently, pausing to enjoy the solid feel of him.
"I was just thinking." His voice was low and deep. "You have quite a way of changing the topic."
"I do?"
"You do, Em. You have yet to explain how you managed to get Mrs. Zoller eating from your hand."
"Ah, that."
"Yes, that." His words mingled with a chuckle. The two of them lapsed into a comfortable silenced. She traced small circles idly on his chest, wondering how one person could have made such a difference in her life.
"Em?"
She stopped tracing the circles.
"I think we should get you a warmer coat." She shifted her gaze to look at his face, and he gave her a small smile. "That old schoolhouse is drafty."
For a moment she could say nothing. Her throat constricted, and he pulled the quilt over her bare arm.
"Oh, Michael." She swallowed hard against the urge to cry. "Than
k You."
He did not reply. He simply smiled.
The next morning was unexpectedly glorious, the brilliant sunlight warming the cabin. Emma had breakfast on the table by the time Michael had finished shaving and dressing.
He took a sip of coffee and leaned forward. The light caught his eyes, but he didn't blink. His full attention was on Emma. "So, will you finally tell me how you changed Mrs. Zoller's mind about the school?"
Her hand cupped the side of his face, still damp from shaving. "I went to Rebecca Larson's yesterday. We had a chat about Mrs. Zoller."
Michael nodded.
"Well she told me that the Zollers are civil to the Larsons, not out of any kindness, but because the Larsons' pottery sells. The Zollers tried to sell some less expensive factory-made pottery, but it fell apart and everyone demanded their money back. So they keep stocking in the Larsons' pottery."
"That makes sense."
"I also learned that Mrs. Zoller is something of an elitist. She feels she alone represents society in these parts. She went to a finishing school in St. Louis, you know."
"She should have stayed longer." Michael placed the mug on the table. "They let her out before she was finished.
Emma laughed, "I'm not sure that would have helped. Anyway, I suppose she found out that back east, my family has some vague social connections."
"Even though you married a half-breed?"
His voice had been matter-of-fact, a simple question rather than a stinging comment. Yet she felt the weight of his words, the importance of what he had said.
"I wouldn't have married anyone else." She tried to keep her tone light, but she realized it was the truth. "You're the only one."
"Em."
She glanced back down and struggled to recall what she had been talking about.
"So I went over the store and found Mrs. Zoller." He remained silent, so she continued. "I told her it crossed my mind that what this town needs is Christmas decorations. Everyone, simply everyone, back east decorates a tree in their house now. It's all the rage."
"I never noticed."
"Well, anyway, it will be all the rage one day. So I gave Mrs. Zoller the opportunity to be ahead of the times, to become a genuine trendsetter. It worked—she was suddenly all ears."
"That must have been an attractive sight."
Emma ignored him. "Then she began to panic. 'Why Mrs. Graham,' she practically cried, 'where on earth can we get Christmas decorations when it's already mid-December?' Well I told her that it just so happens that Rebecca Larson has made a dozen ornaments. Next thing I knew, Mrs. Zoller was out the door and on her way to the Larsons'."
"You must be joking." He leaned back, his face incredulous. "Mrs. Zoller actually went over to the Larson's home?"
Emma nodded eagerly. "And that's not all. We ate lunch with Rebecca and her son at the cottage."
"I don't believe it." He shook his head. "No, Em. I just can't see Mrs. Zoller over there."
"She seemed to think it was all right. I suppose she thinks I may have been crazy these past few months, but I was brought up well. Insane, maybe, but always the lady."
"You were never crazy." His voice was low, and he reached across the table, folding his large warm hand over hers.
"Never mind. The important thing is that over lunch, I mentioned the school. At first Mrs. Zoller wouldn't even discuss it. But little by little, we wore her down. Every time she would get that scowl on her face, Rebecca would chime in with something along the lines of 'how about some cherubs—you could sell them for ten cents apiece, I'd give them to you for five?' And Mrs. Zoller would smile. Did you know those are artificial teeth she ahs? Made from cow teeth, she says. I wouldn't admit that, would you?"
"You were never crazy."
Emma leaned over and kissed him. "I love you, Michael," she said softly.
His hand gripped hers more tightly. "Em, I love you."
Outside a cart rumbled by, and the early morning voices reminded her that the workday was about to begin.
"I guess you had better go to your office." She reluctantly looked away.
Instead of answering, he rose to his feet, never releasing her hand, and pulled her close.
"In a while, Em." His mouth was next to her ear, his lips lightly touched her, causing a shiver to run through her. Then his mouth bent into a knowing grin. "In a while."
Seven
THE SCHOOLHOUSE WAS IN APPALLING shape.
Emma stepped carefully over the threshold, amazed that a room could be both frigid and musty at the same time. There was dust and filth in every corner, and only by brushing the sole of her boot against the floorboards could she discover the floor was made of wide wooden planks.
The walls had been whitewashed, but the paint had started to peel away. The teacher's desk at the front of the room was speckled with ink stains, but the inkwell and quill holder were empty. There were rugged benches with slightly higher benches to serve as tables. Most were broken and splintered. The fireplace was jammed with rubbish and when she took a few steps closer, she realized that an animal had made a nest there.
With all of the work Emma had accomplished in the past week, between helping the Zollers set up a proper "Philadelphia-style" Christmas display—which owed more to the windows at Macy's than to anything in Philadelphia—and watching little George Larson so that Rebecca could fill the Zoller's order, it had never crossed her mind that the log cabin schoolhouse would be in such a disastrous state. After all, it had only been empty for just under a year.
The school was to open in two days. Mrs. Zoller, while merrily selling her stock to excited customers had indeed managed to convince most of the town's citizens to give the new schoolteacher a try. The previous teacher, Emma learned, charged up to five cents per pupil a week to attend school. Emma's fee would be a few sticks of kindling for fireplace. Everyone was pleased, yet slightly suspicious, of the rates.
Meanwhile, Rebecca had come up with some unusual designs for ornaments. Emma explained some basic ideas to her, the tried-and-true Norman Rockwell images Emma had grown up with. Rebecca nodded and began to work.
The results were surprising. Her St. Nicholas sported a blue and green suit trimmed in plaid, with a bushy red moustache on his youthful face. The angels all wore broad smiles and top hats. And the manger scene was set in a tepee, surrounded by sturdy-looking buffalo, the baby Jesus holding an ear of corn. Yet the stuff sold like mad to the folks of Overton Falls, who had no preconceived notions and even fewer inhibitions about where to place the ornaments.
Emma Graham had single-handedly introduced commercialism to the celebration of Christmas. Although she felt more than a twinge of guilt and was given a stern lecture by the minister of a nearby Presbyterian church—where all giddy activities were frowned upon—it was hard to deny the joy everyone seemed to derived from the decorations. Especially the children.
As the day of the school's opening drew near, she met some of her new students. And a sense of panic began to knot in her stomach. It was a strange concept—one room, one teacher, all ages from five to sixteen. She had no idea what they knew, how to teach them, where to begin. As long as she was busy helping Rebecca, she could avoid dwelling on the reality of the job she had undertaken.
But standing in a filthy, frozen room, furnished with broken benches, tipped-over tables, her breath puffing in the cold as she began to panic, she realized that she was simply not up to the job.
"Oh, my God," she whispered to herself, swatting a frozen cobweb as she stepped toward the blackboard. There she saw the elegant tracings of a forgotten lesson. The handwriting was beautiful. The lesson contained four- and five-syllable words, old words, poetic words, the meanings of which she could not recall.
"I can't." She shook her head. What had she been thinking? This was not a well-run school, with a principal and a secretary or even a grumpy janitor. There were no books. There were no slickly bound guides or examples to follow or older teachers to consult in a crisis. Emma w
ould have to be everything, provide the children—some of whom were on the cusp of adulthood—with all they needed. It was impossible.
She backed away from the blackboard. Her knees bumped into a rickety chair, and slowly she sat down.
Perhaps they could leave town. Michael could live anywhere, she reasoned, They could just slip away during the night, leaving a little note to Mrs. Zoller explaining that a relative in a distant state was ill, and they would be gone for a few weeks.
But Michael wouldn't do that to Judge Hawkins or his clients. HE would never slip away, shirk his responsibilities. How disappointed he would be at her failure.
Tears began to blur her vision, to soften the horror of the room. In gentle focus the room looked inviting, rustic but warm. Perhaps one day someone could make the school as homey as it seemed with her eyes brimming with tears, but Emma could never be that person. She would have to tell Michael as soon as possible.
That morning while he shaved, he had whistled. It was such a light sound, so hopeful. HE had no idea she was not up to the task she had set about with such impressive vigor. She was a fraud.
She wasn't even his real wife. She was a fake, an impostor. Michael deserved a real wife, not this shabby imitation who wasn't even capable of running a log cabin school or making him a decent meal.
Slumping forward, she sniffled once, just as she was about to stand up and go tell everyone it had all been a mistake, the chair creaked, then splintered into a half-dozen pieces. In an instant she was sprawled on the squalid floor.
That did it. Her small hold on composure vanished, and she burst into tears. It felt good to cry, to sob like a child, with sloppy abandon. The fear that had been building up in her was gone. In its place was the hollow realization that she was virtually good for nothing.
"Em."
His voice came from the doorway. She hadn't heard him enter, but suddenly he was there, at her side, gently pulling her to her feet.
"Go away, please," she said behind her hands, attempting to shield her face from his extraordinary eyes. "Please leave me alone."