Second Chance Bride Read online

  “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.

  For the first time in years, she possessed enough food to last for nearly a week. More, if she rationed it carefully.

  She considered lighting the stove but doing it with only one arm would be difficult. Besides, she didn’t want to waste any more time when she had so much to learn. With a tug, she opened the drawer, took out a knife and sliced a piece of bread. She was about to take a bite when she remembered Matilda’s prayer at the coach stop. If she were to be Miss Matilda Cunningham, she should say grace, even though it didn’t come easily. “Thank You, Lord, for this food and for this place. Amen.” She nodded, pleased with her first effort.

  Her meal finished, she pulled her desk over to the window and studied each book. Hours passed as she copied the letters from a primer. She had to use her left hand because her right was nearly useless. However, she covered the slate with crooked lines and uneven circles that improved as the afternoon advanced. She pressed hard on the pieces of soapstone, writing each letter again and again until the soapstone shattered and her hand cramped. After she finished copying all the letters over and over, she scrutinized them and wondered what she had written.

  One of the books showed the letters attached together in a beautiful, flowing wave. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to make such lovely lines? Well, she wasn’t ready yet. She returned to her straight lines and circles, wondering how on earth she would get through her first day as a schoolteacher.

  That evening as she fixed her dinner—her third meal in a row of bread and cold canned tomatoes—she heard a knock at the door. She looked down at her food. The knock came again, louder and more insistent.

  “Miss Cunningham,” Mr. Sullivan shouted, and knocked again.

  “Yes, sir.” She abandoned her meal and went to the door. There stood Mr. Sullivan and a beautiful young woman.

  Annie had never seen anyone as lovely. She had golden curls that fell from a knot on the top of her head, her eyes were a deep blue and sparkled with fun and her smile showed dimples in both cheeks. She wore a blue robe that matched her eyes and, Annie could tell, was beautifully made and very expensive. She was someone’s pampered darling, Annie guessed.

  “Good evening, Miss Cunningham.” He nodded as Annie motioned them in. “I came by in case you have questions before school begins.” He turned toward the young woman who was wandering through the classroom. “May I introduce you to Miss Hanson? She’s the daughter of our neighbor.”

  The young woman turned and gave Annie such a warm smile that she couldn’t help but return it.

  “Won’t you call me Amanda? I shall call you Matilda, and I believe we will be great friends! You must forgive our rudeness for dropping in on you unannounced.” Amanda took Annie’s hand. Annie hardly knew how to respond to the beautiful whirlwind. “I accompanied John because he’s very proper. I’m acting as his chaperone tonight.”

  “Amanda, I don’t believe—” Mr. Sullivan started to protest.

  “But I wanted to come,” Amanda continued. “I admire you so much. I’ve always believed education is important, but I’m afraid my poor brain is barely able to hold a single thought for any length of time.”

  “Do not allow Amanda to mislead you.” He nodded as the beautiful young woman floated toward him and placed her hand on his arm. “She is an intelligent and sensible young woman.”

  “Sensible? Oh, John, you certainly know better than that.” She patted his hand before turning toward Annie. “I truly do respect your education and your ability to work with children, Matilda. I wish I had some talent, any talent.”

  “Oh, I feel sure—”

  “Alas, I fear I’m but a useless butterfly.” Her sweet smile turned her statement into a shared joke. “But John said he needed to stop by here before we join my father for dinner. I will excuse myself so the two of you may discuss education and such.” Her curls bounced as she flitted toward the teacher’s desk.

  “How are you feeling, Miss Cunningham?” Worry showed in his eyes. “I hope you’ve recovered from the accident.”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m much better.” His sympathy warmed her a bit. “Although I fear I will not be able to write for a few days,” she said, glancing at her right arm.

  “I’m sure the children will understand.” He cleared his throat and appeared slightly uncomfortable. Annie suddenly felt nervous. “Miss Cunningham, when we spoke upon your arrival, I felt that we may not have communicated well.”

  “O
h?” What did that mean? Surely he couldn’t have found out what she’d done already, could he?

  “When I found you at the hotel, you didn’t seem to remember much of the information I had sent you.”

  “I am sorry I seemed confused. With the accident…” She motioned toward the bruise on her face.

  “Of course, but I want to make sure you have no misunderstandings about the expectations of the school board. May I sit down?” He settled himself on a bench, leaning on the table before him. Annie had little choice but to sit with him, though it was the last thing she wanted to do. He pulled a paper from the leather case he carried.

  “Do you remember all the requirements stated in your contract?” He handed it to her. “This is the agreement you signed last month.”

  As he leaned forward she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek and smell the scent of bay rum cologne. She took a deep breath as an unknown and confusing emotion filled her.

  She swallowed, closing her eyes in an effort to regain her balance. When she opened them, the gaze that met hers was icy cold and hard. Chiding herself for allowing her thoughts to roam, she took the sheet from his hand and looked at it. She recognized that there were different sections and a signature at the bottom. Feeling that Mr. Sullivan wouldn’t lie to her and having no recourse if he did, Annie nodded and handed the paper back.

  “I would like to review the points with you, Mr. Sullivan. Would you read them one by one?” she asked. “So we can discuss them if necessary? Just to make sure I understand them all.”

  He glanced at her, puzzled, but began to read. “The agreement says that you will receive the sum of thirty-two dollars per month and lodging during the school term.”

  Thirty-two dollars a month! Oh, my, it’s a fortune! She could save it to live on when she had to leave, if she lasted a month. She could buy a ticket to another destination, she could buy a good dinner and…oh, she could buy shoes that fit!

  He continued. “You will teach for six months per year for three years, with four holidays each year. If you wish,” he said, glancing up at her, as if gauging her understanding, “you may sponsor an extra term in the spring. When school is not in session, you may live in the building for the sum of three dollars a month if you clean the schoolhouse.”