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  “All right.”

  “You agree to arrive by the fifteenth of October—well, you’re already here, so that point is moot. Next, you will not associate with people of low degree, who drink alcohol, use tobacco or play cards.”

  She nodded again. She didn’t plan to do any of those things or associate with anyone who did.

  “You agree to go to meetings of the school committee when you are needed.”

  “Of course.”

  “You are not to marry while you are in the employ of the school.”

  “I have no intention of marrying.” She had no need for a man, gentle or not.

  “You are expected to be a member of and contribute your knowledge to the Trail’s End Literary Society.”

  Oh, dear, what did that mean? Well, it was too late to balk now. “Yes, sir.”

  “You will attend church every Sunday, and prayer meetings, as well.”

  She couldn’t do that. Although Matilda would go to church, Annie wasn’t good enough—not nearly good enough—to frequent God’s house.

  “Miss Cunningham?”

  She looked up to see him scrutinizing her, eyebrow raised. “Of course.”

  “Fine.” He smiled. “You have met my daughter, Elizabeth?”

  “Yes, she’s a lovely child.”

  “She and I will pick you up Sunday morning.” He glanced back at the papers he held. “Finally, the contract lists your duties. You will start the stove on cold mornings, you will help students with their lunches and have them clean up afterward, you will sweep and mop the classroom every evening and you will teach all classes to a level deemed acceptable to the school board at the end of each term.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” She nodded. “I’m glad you reminded me of those duties. Lighting the stove will be difficult with the injury to my arm. Could someone help me?”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t consider that. I’ll send Ramon down in the morning to light it until you are able.”

  “What time does school start?”

  “As I told you yesterday, at seven-thirty. Out at two-thirty. Many students help with chores on the farms in the morning and after school. They may arrive late or have to leave early.”

  “Of course.” She nodded as if she remembered that.

  He placed the paper back in his case as he stood, contemplating her solemnly. “You have come to us highly recommended. Your references state you are a woman of high moral character.”

  She nodded again and vowed to be exactly that kind of a woman, if God would just teach her to read and write overnight.

  “We hope you will do better than the previous teacher. She was an incurably giddy young woman who ran off to marry a young farmer after teaching for only three months. I hope you don’t anticipate doing that.”

  “No, sir. I’m not the least bit giddy,” she answered truthfully.

  “I’m sorry Amanda and I bothered you.” His eyes rested on her face for a moment before he glanced away. “As I said, I feared you might have forgotten some of these points and wished to make sure that we were in agreement before school began.”

  “Thank you. That accident—” She pressed her hand against her temple, which still throbbed.

  “John.” Amanda approached them. “It’s getting late. I’m sure my father’s getting hungry. You know what a bear he can be when he doesn’t eat on time.”

  Annie smiled at Amanda’s description of her father.

  “You are quite beautiful when you smile,” Amanda said. “Oh, my, I’ve done it again.” She lifted her shoulders and bit her lip. “It sounds as if I think you are not beautiful when you don’t smile. I didn’t mean that at all. Just that you are even prettier then.” A dimple appeared in Amanda’s lovely ivory cheek. “It was wonderful to meet you, Matilda. I shall see you again very soon, I’m sure.” She moved toward the door with a rustling swirl of her skirt. “Come, John. I have no desire to face my father when he’s hungry.”

  He glanced at Amanda with affection, then looked back at Annie. “I believe everything is in order for tomorrow. Ramon will come down to light the stove, and I’ll ask his wife, Lucia, to help with the lunches until you are used to the routine and your wounds have healed.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sullivan.” She rose as he took the other woman’s arm and turned to leave.

  But Amanda hadn’t finished. She pulled on Mr. Sullivan’s arm. “John, I cannot agree with this ‘Mr. Sullivan’ and ‘Miss Cunningham’ nonsense. You’re going to be working so closely together and the three of us are going to be such good friends.” She turned to Annie. “You must call him John and he should call you Matilda.” She nodded decisively, as if she had taken care of the entire problem.

  “But that wouldn’t be proper,” Annie said.

  Mr. Sullivan turned toward Annie with an amused smile. “You’ll learn that Amanda is not at all proper.”

  “John!” Amanda protested.

  “But she is headstrong and stubborn and won’t let this go until we agree with her decision.”

  “Well, yes, that is true.” Amanda nodded. “You might both as well do what I’ve asked.”

  “But I feel most uncomfortable…” Annie objected.

  “Miss Cunningham,” John began, then paused as he mentally changed her name. “Matilda, you might as well give in. Amanda will push until she gets her way. And she always gets her way.”

  Amanda smiled smugly.

  “Yes, sir,” Annie said, then forced herself to add, “John.” Although the use of his first name seemed much too familiar, it didn’t feel as odd as she’d thought.

  “There.” Amanda clapped her pretty little hands. “Now we are all friends.” She waved and pulled John toward the door. “Excuse us. We must hurry or my father will have started to eat the furniture.”

  Annie stood in the doorway, watching through the rapidly falling dusk as John assisted Amanda into the surrey, holding her elbow as if she were precious porcelain. Amanda accepted his care as her due, then waved at Annie as the vehicle moved toward the ranch house.

  Amanda was a lovely woman. Oh, Annie wished they could be friends, as Amanda seemed to think they could. She easily pictured Amanda having a friendship with Matilda, but not with Annie. Annie felt stuck between her two identities as she closed the door and walked between the tables in the schoolroom. She was no longer just Annie MacAllister, and she wasn’t entirely Matilda Cunningham, either.

  John had seemed solemn and judgmental—just a little—but he’d been concerned for her. An odd combination, but she hoped it meant he would give her a chance.

  “Tomorrow,” she murmured. Tomorrow evening, would she still be here? Would the children find out their teacher couldn’t read or write? Would she be on a stagecoach out of Trail’s End by evening?

  Or would she have another day—perhaps another week—of food and warmth and safety?

  Oh, please God. She offered up another prayer, still fairly sure it would make no difference. Please grant me at least a month, just long enough to get one check and find another place to live.

  Chapter Three

  Nine faces turned toward Annie, smiles on their lips, their eyes sparkling with excitement.

  She’d never felt so guilty before. Had she known her deception would rebound on the nine eager students before her, she wouldn’t have…Yes, she would have because she had to escape, to find a place to live. But she regretted the consequences and was sorry she didn’t have the ability to give these children what they expected and needed.

  She glanced down at the silver watch she’d pinned to the front of her basque. It made her feel like a teacher. Seven-thirty. Time to begin.

  “Hello, class. My name is Miss Cunningham. I’m your new teacher.” Annie stood on the platform and looked at each student. Every child’s face glowed with happiness and anticipation.

  Hers was the only one in the room that didn’t. For a moment, she considered confessing her deficiencies and running from the schoolhouse. But where would she go
?

  The children kept their eyes on her, probably expecting her to do more than just stand on the platform in front of the classroom. Annie forced herself to say something. “Why don’t you introduce yourselves?”

  A slender girl with dark, tightly braided hair stood in the front row to Annie’s left. Like all the girls, she wore a long-waisted dress with a lace flounce and black boots. A few covered their dresses with Mother Hubbard aprons.

  “I’m Martha Norton. I’m in the seventh grade.” Martha nodded at a plump young woman with her dark hair pulled into braids with far less perfection. “This is Ida Johnson. She’s in the seventh grade also. We help the younger children,” she added proudly with a lift of her chin.

  “Thank you, Martha and Ida.” In her mind, Annie repeated the names as she smiled at both girls.

  Two boys stood in the second row on Annie’s right. Boys on the right, girls on the left—they had arranged themselves that way as soon as they entered the classroom.

  “I’m Frederick Meyer,” said a boy with short blond hair. He wore what seemed to be the boys’ uniform: a round-necked shirt in plaid or stripes with trousers that stopped just past the knees and boots. “This is Samuel Johnson,” he said, introducing the boy next to him. “And that’s Rose Tripp.” He pointed at the redheaded girl.

  After the other children introduced themselves, Annie said, “We’re short three students this morning.”

  “The Bryan Brothers,” Martha said. “You won’t see much of them, Miss Cunningham. They have to help on the farm. When they come, they’re usually late. Wilber misses a lot. He’s almost sixteen and his father doesn’t see any reason why—”

  “Thank you for all that information, Martha. We’ll welcome them back when they are able to return.” She paused and looked around the class. “I need to tell you something else.” Annie pointed at her right arm. “Children, you may have heard I was in an accident on the way here.”

  They all nodded.

  “Because I hurt my arm, I’ll be unable to write for several days. I’ve been practicing with my left hand and am not very good, so you’ll all have to help me.”

  They nodded again.

  An hour later, Annie was enjoying listening to the buzz of activity in the classroom as the students worked together.

  “A, B, C, D,” chanted the first and second graders while Martha and Ida held up slates with those letters written in strong, firm strokes.

  Annie stood behind the group and studied the lesson with much more interest than any of the students, willing herself to pick up everything the older students taught the younger ones. She traced the letters on the palm of her hand, attaching sounds to the memory of the letters she’d practiced, hoping she would remember them that evening.

  She looked over Martha’s shoulder as the girl gave math problems to the fourth graders and watched the students write the numbers, studying how they formed them on their slates. She’d practice them that evening, as well. By the time Lucia came to help with lunch at noon, Annie had learned a great deal.

  The children had brought their lunches to school in pails, and they sat outside in the warm October sun to eat with their friends.

  Lucia brought plates for both Elizabeth and Annie. “I’ll bring you lunch every day,” she said. “And I’ll wash your clothing as I have for all the teachers. I noticed when I put another blanket in your room that there is a dress soaking. Is that the one you were wearing when you were injured?”

  Annie nodded.

  “Then I’ll clean and launder it, as well.”

  “Thank you.” Annie felt so spoiled. To show her appreciation, she’d buy Lucia something when she was paid. If she was still here. If she got paid at all.

  After lunch, the boys kicked a ball around while the girls tossed hoops to each other, laughing and shouting. Fascinated by their energy and joyful abandon, Annie watched from a bench by the clearing.

  When the children came back into school at one o’clock, she glanced at the watch and wondered what she would do with them for another ninety minutes. How would she fill the time? She’d already taught them everything she knew. Almost everything.

  “Children, do you want to sing?”

  The girls nodded; the boys shook their heads. Annie laughed. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the songs her mother had taught her, deciding which ones the children would enjoy.

  “White wings, they never grow weary,” she began. When she finished the chorus, she opened her eyes to see rapt expressions on the students’ faces—even the boys.

  Elizabeth and Ida smiled and clapped, and Martha said, “Oh, Miss Cunningham, that was so beautiful. Please sing more.”

  “I’ll sing again, but this time, you have to sing with me.”

  Although the boys grumbled, they joined in. She taught them all to sing the chorus and had begun to teach some harmony on the verses when she looked up to see John Sullivan at the door. He wore an odd expression, a mixture of admiration and surprise.

  “Miss Cunningham.” He nodded at her. “Children.” They nodded back at him.

  “I came by to pick up Elizabeth and to ask how your first day of teaching went. When I approached the school, I heard your wonderful music.” He nodded. “I wasn’t aware singing was one of your talents.”

  “Thank you. The children seemed to enjoy it.”

  “You didn’t mention your musical ability in your letter of application.”

  “I didn’t realize it would be of interest.” She smiled and turned toward the students. “Children, you may go now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Eight of the students grabbed their lunch pails and dashed from the building while Elizabeth ran to her father and held her arms out. He reached down to pick her up and envelop her in a hug, his expression softening.

  Annie titled her head to watch the two, the love between the often stern banker and his daughter obvious.

  “Miss Cunningham is a wonderful teacher. She’s really good at math,” Elizabeth said, and grimaced, her lips turned down.

  “Not your favorite subject,” he said.

  “No, but it was all right. And we helped her write because of her arm, you know.”

  “Yes, sweetheart, we’re sorry about her arm.” John gently placed her back on the ground. “Would you please go read for a few minutes? I need to talk with Miss Cunningham.”

  Oh, dear.

  “Thank you for coming by,” Annie said. “The day went well, I believe. We got to know each other, and I began to measure the levels of each child in mathematics and reading.”

  “After I heard you singing, I couldn’t help but wonder—do you play the piano or organ?”

  Annie looked around the schoolroom, in case she’d missed such an instrument in her post-accident fog, but there was none. “I play the piano and have played the organ, but I don’t read music. If someone sings the melody for me, I can play anything.”

  “A most talented young woman. I’m sure Reverend Thompson would like to talk to you. We’re in need of an organist at church.”

  At church? Annie playing the organ in a church? Oh, no. She didn’t think so. She shouldn’t even be inside a church let alone to help in the service. No, she wasn’t fit for that.

  “I don’t think I should. Thank you, but I’d need to practice and wouldn’t like to take time away from the children or from preparing their lessons.”

  “We have both a piano and a fine organ in our house. You may practice there. Perhaps you could even teach Elizabeth a few tunes. Of course, the church pays only a pittance. It may not be worth your time.”

  She glanced up at John. She wanted to tell him that money was not the problem, but she could hardly explain the real reason for her reluctance. “It’s not the money at all. I just thought—the children. I’m so new, and I do have responsibilities here.”

  “I don’t mean to push you, but you’ll be at church every Sunday. And if you’re there already…”

  He smiled. The expression softened
his features and distracted her. Might have even attracted her…if she were a different woman with a different past.

  “You have no idea how much we need a musician.” He shook his head.

  “Well, yes, of course.” She gave in. “I’ll discuss this with Reverend Thompson on Sunday, but my arm—”

  “Aah, yes. Perhaps not immediately.”

  After she’d completed cleaning the schoolhouse, Annie heated a can of vegetables and added jerky and cubed potatoes. With a slice of bread, it made a delicious meal. After she washed the dishes and wiped the small table, she took the lamp into the schoolroom and began her work.

  How clever, she reflected as she studied the readers, for the publisher of the first level to have a letter next to a picture of something that starts with that letter “A, apple,” she read, tracing the letters in the word as she said it. “B, bug.” Soon she knew the entire alphabet and had practiced all her letters and many of the short words. Although the round letters she wrote slanted to the left and were a little oddly shaped, an unaccustomed pride filled her because she’d accomplished so much in one night.

  Then exhaustion hit her. Tired and chilled but exhilarated at all she had learned, she carried the lamp into her bedroom, washed and got ready for bed.

  If she worked all weekend, perhaps she could learn to read an easy story. Of course, putting the letters together into words was difficult. Would it be possible to have the older girls read a story? She could listen and learn, too.

  Yes, tomorrow she’d have Martha do just that, Annie decided as she slipped into bed. She wrapped herself in the blanket and fell asleep, feeling warm and safe—and proud to be doing something important.

  John sat up in his bed, unable to sleep. He threw the covers off, stood and moved to the window. Often the sight of the land that had belonged to his family for eighty years soothed him and he could fall asleep again. As he watched, poplar trees swayed, their branches teased by a gentle breeze while the light of the rising moon bathed their leaves in silver.