Montana Rose Read online

  But none of that solved the problem. Tory hated school. And while Jesse didn’t blame him, he knew Tory had to have what education Wise River could offer. So he’d taken on the added chore of hitching the wagon and delivering him to the school each morning. And now if he lingered in the schoolyard it was for no other reason than to make sure Tory was securely inside the building.

  Like a litany, he reminded himself that those actions, that rage, was evidence there could never be a woman or children of his own in his life. He didn’t dare. He was his father’s son. And if he doubted that his father’s blood coursed through him, all he had to do was recall how hard it had been to stop with merely shaking the cane-wielding teacher. He’d had to fight himself not to beat the man senseless with his fists. Even now all he had to do was close his eyes and see the red welts across Tory’s buttocks and lower part of his back to have blinding rage fill him. Rage similar to what his father had displayed time after time for any infraction of the rules. Rage that had been handed down from father to son.

  He didn’t think he’d ever strike a woman or a child. But he didn’t know that for sure. It had sickened him to see his father take out his wrath on his stepmother. He’d felt so helpless, especially when the man had turned on him. Jesse felt sure it was this same behavior that had hastened his mother’s death, killing her will to live. He’d been too young to know what was happening or to do anything about it. Then when he was old enough to stand up to the violent man and offer some protection to his stepmother, what had he done? He took the coward’s way out and left. Didn’t that action make him as guilty as his father for the abuse Tory had then been subjected to? He’d let down a child that had always looked up to his older brother.

  No, he’d never marry and take the chance. He didn’t dare allow any remorse for this decision to affect his life.

  Jesse gathered his tools. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he’d skipped lunch. Because of Tory’s dawdling, he hadn’t taken the time to do more than grab a cold biscuit for breakfast. Time to start the evening meal. He’d eat and do more chores before falling into bed once more so tired he ached. Still, there was satisfaction in working the land again, a sense of accomplishment. Now if only Tory would come around. A sigh fell from his lips, and emptiness filled him.

  Tory should be getting home from school soon. Maybe if he worded the questions just right, he’d get him to open up, share his day. Heck, he might even hear how the new schoolmarm was doing. I’ve every right to be curious. I’m only looking out for my brother.

  Jesse dreaded each day, knowing Tory would defy him over anything he could. It seemed as if his brother was determined to make him pay the rest of his life for his earlier decisions.

  He ignored the ache in his back. There wasn’t time to brood over his minor pains. Tomorrow had every promise of being another busy day. He’d promised Jarrett McCabe, on the Big Horn Valley Ranch, he’d help put a new roof on a hail-damaged shed. Jarrett was not only a neighbor, but they had become friends since Jesse’s return, often giving each other a helping hand. He knew full well Jarrett was Wisteria’s brother-in-law and knew also that Wisteria was Rose Bush’s sister. The information had no special meaning he assured himself. Just an interesting fact.

  Jesse shifted the cast-iron skillet to the back of the stove and gave a disgusted look at the bacon curling in the pan. He’d attempted pancakes and bacon, knowing this had once been a favorite meal of Tory’s. It had been a waste of effort. Dusk had fallen and he wasn’t home yet. Supper was ruined. Again. Jesse knew he wasn’t that great of a cook anyway. His meals were monotonous, and more often than not, he’d burn something. But they were worse when eaten cold.

  He curbed down the resentment felt for the absent boy and grabbed a plate off the shelf. He’d eat. Grabbing a cold pancake, he spread some butter over it and took a bite. Jesse made himself chew and swallow the lumpy mess. It was food of sorts and he was hungry.

  Emma had been an excellent cook. Thoughts of her Sunday fried chicken still made his mouth water. He’d tried frying one of the hens too old to lay. It had been a disaster start to finish. He hadn’t realized feathers soaked in hot water, ready for plucking, could smell so bad. Still, that smell wasn’t anything compared to what had whooshed out the minute he’d inserted his knife into the hen’s stomach for gutting. He’d about lost his breakfast when he grabbed the warm entrails and yanked them free. The cut-up pieces frying in the pan looked nothing like Emma’s. In fact, they looked nothing like parts of a chicken. The wings and back were one large piece. He couldn’t find the joint to cut and separate the thighs from the legs. So he’d just hacked and guessed, resulting in the bare knob of joint protruding from the top of the leg.

  Burnt on the outside, raw on the inside, neither he nor Tory could eat it. The disgust in Tory’s eyes said it all. He’d shoved his plate across the table and stalked out of the kitchen—just another night he hadn’t returned to the house.

  Just then, the sound of a door slamming open jarred through the kitchen followed by heavy treads across the wooden floor, heading toward the stairs.

  “Tory,” Jesse called.

  There was no response save for the halted steps.

  “Tory, come in here. Now.”

  Jesse held himself still. Surely Tory wouldn’t defy him so openly. Minutes ticked by while Jesse stared at the doorway.

  “What do you want?” The words preceded his brother’s glowering face as Tory sauntered into the kitchen.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Out.”

  Jesse felt his patience slowly ebb from his body. “Out where?” He spit out the question through clenched jaws.

  Tory turned on his heel and started out of the room, ignoring Jesse’s last question.

  “Tory, don’t you dare walk out of this room. Get back in here and sit down!” he said, each word a bitten command.

  A red flush rose up Tory’s face as he whirled around and grabbed a chair from the table. He slammed his body down, slouching in the chair as though anything his brother might want or say was of no consequence to him.

  “Supper is ruined.”

  “Yeah.” Tory’s lip curled. “Like it was worth eating anyway.”

  Jesse bit back an angry retort. “I’m not a cook. But damn, darn it, I try.”

  Tory snorted and focused on the kitchen window as if his eyes could penetrate the gathering darkness.

  Jesse tried another tact. “How was school?”

  “Okay.”

  “Look. I know this is hard—”

  “You don’t know anything.”

  “Tory,” he said in a warning snarl.

  “What?” Tory gave him a look that was both bravado and fear. “You gonna show me how big and strong you are, maybe take a rod to me like—”

  Jesse only heard the word rod and he jumped to his feet, sending his chair backward.

  “What do you mean rod? Like who? Did that new schoolmarm take a rod to you?” He rounded the table and grabbed Tory by the shirt, giving him a shake. “Huh, did she?”

  “No, she spent the day blabbing about stupid rules.” Tory jerked out of his grasp and tore out of the room. His final words drifted back. “Look, I don’t need you. Why don’t you just leave? Just leave.”

  Chapter 12

  Rose sipped her tea and smiled to herself. The first day of school was over. She was exhausted, but it had been a success. Well, sort of a success. The children seemed excited to learn, and if they had to be coaxed to join in discussions, that was understandable. Actually, it had taken all of her talent and patience to get them to participate. Fear of discipline reigned. The specter of the former teacher floated throughout the classroom, reminding them of all the rules of discipline, especially. Should a child speak without being prior spoken to by the teacher, or if they talk in class, they will recei
ve one whack with the rod.

  After several fearful glances at the rod, Rose had slowly walked over to the offending object, and accompanied by gasps, grabbed it, faced the class, and said, “There will be no use of the rod in my classroom.” She marched over to the outer vestibule and deposited it behind the door out of sight.

  “However,” she addressed the class on return, “I will expect perfect behavior out of all of you at all times. If I don’t receive this behavior, I will contact your parents and they may use the rod as they determine fit.” Not one set of eyes left her face. Then slowly, face-by-face, child by child, smiles grew. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Miss Rose,” they chorused.

  “Fine. Now let’s define our own classroom rules.”

  Some of the smiles faded. It had been too good to be true. Miss Bush was going to have harsh rules just like every other teacher.

  “Art, do you have good penmanship?”

  Art warily nodded.

  “Then please go to the chalkboard and write the rules as the class tells you.” She handed a piece of chalk to the puzzled boy.

  Turning, Rose noticed a hand wavering from a desk in the middle of the room.

  “Yes, your name please. You will all have to give me your names for the next few days until I know who you are.”

  The slight boy got to his feet, his head tilted until his nose was in the air and his narrow shoulders military erect.

  “Willy, Ma’am. Willy Backley,” he said, his voice a squeaky whine. “My mother is Mrs. Backley and she is on the school board.”

  Rose gulped. It was to be expected. That’s what can happen if you become too prideful. She had been sure she was on the right track. Then she caught the superior expression on Willy’s narrow face. He sensed her apprehension. That was all Rose needed to strengthen her backbone.

  “Yes, Willy. You have a rule?” she asked hopefully.

  “No, Ma’am. I just think you should know that my mother, uh, the school board, will not be pleased that you threw out the rod. My mother says we are to be raised up Godly and the bible says—”

  “I’m quite aware what the bible says. Now, Willy, if you have nothing further to add, such as a rule, other than use of the rod,” she hastily added, “then please be seated.”

  Rose turned her back to the class, choosing to ignore the snickers as Willy slowly sat back in his seat. Wrapped up in the skinny frame of one weasely little boy was trouble.

  “Okay, class, let’s give Art something to write. How about Rule Number One being ‘A student may raise their hand in participation at any time?’”

  This was met by vigorous nods.

  And like a dam breaking, hands rose until the chalkboard was full. Rose handed out coveted sheets of paper from one of the Big Chief tablets and said the rules were to be copied using their very best penmanship, then handed in for a grade.

  Thus flew the morning. The history of kerosene was tabled until tomorrow.

  “Time is up. Those of you who have completed copying the rules may break for lunch.” Her gaze roamed the room. “I will need a monitor.” Rose hurried to explain. “This person will be chosen weekly and will be my second-in-command.” Pleased murmurs greeted her words. “They will be dependable, trustworthy, and most of all, they will be kind. They will see that the younger children are looked after. They will see that there is no bullying on the playground. I will assign their duties each day. Now, who would like to volunteer to be our very first monitor?”

  Several hands shot up. The former reticence seemed to have been placed alongside the vanquished rod.

  “Thank you, all of you, for volunteering.” She paused. “This week’s monitor will be Amanda. I assure you, each one of you will have the opportunity to be monitor before the school year ends. Are there any of you that have not finished copying the rules?” Out of the corner of her eye, Rose noticed Tory’s paper held only a few lines and several rubbed-out words. Words rubbed out so hard, small holes had appeared in their place. She would not embarrass this boy. She gathered his paper along with the rest. It was obvious Tory would need individual attention. But whether he would accept it was another matter.

  Two little hands rose. Rose smiled. The three-year-old Trawley twins. She had given them some butcher paper and asked they draw a picture of their family. Of course they couldn’t copy the rules.

  “After lunch I would like one of our older students to sit with Sarah and Lucy and help start them learning the alphabet.” Again hands waved. Rose basked in the excited participation. In one morning, the class had sprung alive. Their enthusiasm was contagious. All caught it except Willy. His eyes were narrowed and Rose just knew he was committing to memory every infraction, every flaunting of a rule, and every new idea she introduced. That there would be trouble there was no doubt.

  Rose directed the newly appointed monitor to lead the class to the playground where they would spend their lunch hour.

  “Enjoy your lunches and the fresh air. When you return to the classroom, we’ll have individual reading so I can ascertain your level and where you stand in this ability.”

  Rose missed the panicky look that crossed Tory’s face as he lowered his eyes and followed the monitor out of the classroom.

  When class resumed, Tory wasn’t among the students present. The large desk was glaringly empty.

  “Amanda, did you line up all the students?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Just like you told me. Soon as you rang the bell, we made a line and came inside.” The small girl waited expectantly.

  “Good job. You are making a fine monitor.”

  Like a flower opening to the warm rays of the sun, Amanda’s face bloomed with pleasure.

  “Thank you, Miss Bush.”

  Rose walked to the front of the room and stood in front of Tory’s empty desk. “Does anyone know where Tory is?”

  No one answered.

  Rose tried another tactic. “Amanda, as monitor, you were watching the playground. Do you know where Tory is?” Rose gulped down the fear threatening to take over. On her first day she had lost a child. Not only that, but the lost child was Jesse River’s brother. How could she face him and explain she’d allowed his brother to-to what? Disappear?

  “Amanda?”

  Amanda sighed and said resignedly, “Tory left. He always does. He never stays all day.”

  “Never?”

  “No, Ma’am. Tory hates school. He only comes because his brother makes him. He used to not come in the mornings, but now he has to because his brother brings him to the door.”

  “I see.” She didn’t, but those were the only words she could think to say. Judging from the problem with the desk, Tory’s banishment to a corner, and being labeled a dummy, she could understand only too well his not wanting to come to school under Mr. Macon’s rod wielding rules. But hadn’t she solved this? Hadn’t she shown him that was a thing of the past?

  “Does anyone know where Tory goes when he leaves here?”

  Timmy raised his hand, and at Rose’s nod, he said, “Tory goes to the woods. He stays there all the time.”

  “Thank you, Timmy and Amanda.” Resolutely, she picked up a book from the desk. She’d just been handed another problem on her too full plate. A problem best shoved aside for another day. Perhaps tomorrow would be different. Perhaps tomorrow Tory would stay the day. Yes, and perhaps cows would fly.

  Putting a smile on her face, Rose said, “Now, let’s start our reading time. Who would like to go first?”

  Chapter 13

  Saturday, blessed Saturday. Rose shifted in the bed, stretching her body, reveling in the fact that today she needn’t be up preparing for another day in the classroom. Today, she could lie in bed and do nothing. She could go for a long walk, she could borrow Wisteria’s horse and buggy and go for a
drive, maybe even a picnic, she could—the list was endless.

  Laying there, she reviewed the past week. It had been a week of small successes. Mid-week, she had introduced her plan of bringing alive the history of everyday objects, starting with the kerosene lamp.

  “Students,” she said to the waiting class. “Do you know what this is?”

  “Sure,” one of the boys replied. “A lamp.”

  “Yes, you’re partially right. But what kind of lamp is it?”

  Heads turned, seeking the answer from each other.

  Rose gave the class several minutes and when nothing came forth, she said, “It’s a kerosene lamp.”

  Several grins followed the pronouncement. “We knew that, Miss Bush. We just thought you had some special kinda lamp there.”

  “Well, it is special. We have the luxury of the kerosene lamp because of Mr. Abraham Gesner. Mr. Gesner distilled coal and produced a clear liquid. Mr., or we should say Dr. Gesner, was both a geologist and medical doctor.” Rose hesitated before continuing. There wasn’t a sound in the room. Even Tory was giving her his full attention.

  “Dr. Gesner poured the liquid into an oil lamp with an absorbent wick. He then lit the lamp and guess what?”

  A hand in the back of the room rose.

  “Yes?”

  “The lamp worked?”

  “It sure did. It gave off a beautiful, pale yellow flame. He named the liquid kerosene, which means wax oil. Some of you may know it by another name—coal oil.”

  Heads nodded and hands shot up.

  “I know all about coal oil. Once my dad cut his hand, and he put coal oil in the cut.”

  “What happened?”

  “The cut healed,” the boy said importantly.