Montana Rose Page 8

  “So what if I did. You’re not the only one that can take care of yourself.”

  “Didn’t say I was.” Jesse wished he could start all over and not push at Tory. He turned his attention to the bacon sizzling in the pan.

  “Thought I’d crack a few of the fresh eggs I got from the Watson’s. We’ll have breakfast for supper. Then if you’d agree, I’d like for us to take a look at that pinto, see if you think he’d make you a good saddle horse.

  Jesse’s back was turned so he missed the way Tory’s face lit up. For a few short minutes, he’d forgotten to hate.

  “You . . . you mean it? I mean, sure if that’s what you want, guess I can make time.”

  “Well, he’ll take work. He’s been let go until he thinks he’s the boss. You’ll have to show him who is.”

  “No!”

  “What?” Jesse jerked around.

  “I won’t show him who’s the boss. Not ever. If it means having to whip him into doing what I want—”

  Jesse crossed the floor in seconds. “Tory, stop.” He grabbed the shaking boy. “Now you listen to me. Have you ever seen me take a whip to a horse? Huh?”

  Tory looked everywhere but at him.

  “Answer me, Tory.”

  “No.”

  “Well then, why would I expect you to? I’d be darned mad if I saw you take a whip to any animal. You don’t beat a horse into submission or to show him who’s the boss. Just like you don’t do it with family.” He lowered his voice but didn’t take his hands from Tory’s shoulders.

  “Our dad’s way isn’t mine,” he said softly. “And it isn’t yours. We’ve both been at the wrong end of being shown who’s the boss, right?”

  After a long pause, Tory nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Okay, then. From now on, we talk things out. You don’t like something I’m doing, you tell me. I’ll do the same with you. Nobody’s the boss in this house. We’re a team, partners. Joint owners in this ranch. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry, partner.”

  Jesse busied himself with the eggs, choosing not to notice the tears in Tory’s eyes.

  “Guess I could eat something. Just don’t fry them like rocks.”

  “Runny?” Jesse asked.

  “Not runny either. Here, let me.” Tory shoved him aside and took the spatula out of his hand. “Ma taught me to cook some. After he died, it was just her and me. There were days she stayed in bed all day, sick.”

  “I’m sorry, Tory. I should have been here.”

  “Nothing you could have done.”

  “No. But that’s no excuse for me not being around.” Jesse walked back over to the window and looked unseeingly into the gathering dusk. “Do you think someday you and I could talk? Man to man?”

  Silence greeted Jesse’s words. Silence broken only by the scrape of the spatula in the hot grease.

  Jesse felt his shoulders sag. Well, he’d tried.

  Then a voice broke the quiet. A voice so low Jesse thought he’d imagined the words. “Partners to partners?”

  Jesse tried to answer, but he couldn’t move past the lump in his throat. He couldn’t turn around either. He blinked hard and swallowed. A smile of hope creased his face and the weight on his shoulders took wings.

  Chapter 16

  Montana was experiencing a rare but beautiful Indian summer. October was creeping by and the classroom was resplendent with red and gold autumn leaves glued to paper, hanging from every available space. They’d had an afternoon nature hike with Tory leading the class and returned with handfuls of leaves dressed in autumn finery.

  True to their bargain, Tory had attended school each day, all day, never disappearing in the afternoon. Granted, his face wore a frown most of the time and he rarely participated. But when the day ended, Rose saw a different boy emerge. They’d leave the classroom and go into her inviting kitchen where she always had a snack waiting. Then, sitting at her table, they’d tackle reading. In a few weeks, the primer was relegated to the bookshelf and McGuffey’s First Eclectic Reader appeared. They worked on the alphabet, then graduated to the script alphabet. Tory had the handwriting of an artist.

  Rose smiled to herself at the preface in the McGuffey’s Reader. It praised the book stating that words of only two or three letters were used at first. Then longer and more difficult ones would gradually be introduced. She looked forward to the day when the stories would be interesting and maybe, just maybe, captivate a young boy and introduce him to the world within books.

  New words were presented at the start of each lesson and Tory learned them before going on to read the following pages. Rose followed up by having him copy the words on his slate. And it seemed to be working.

  Rose taught using the Phonic Method. She had a phonic chart on a roller that she’d unwind, and together they’d sound out each letter as she pointed to it.

  “Tory, you are getting faster than me in sounding out your letters,” she praised at one lesson.

  “Baby words,” he scoffed, discarding her praise. “I’m still reading those stupid baby words like, ‘The cat ran.’ Who cares if the dog or cat ran or if the man had a pen? Or if a rat ran? I sure don’t.”

  Rose laughed. She’d come to care deeply about this boy and saw that beneath his hard shell there was a highly intelligent young man. She didn’t dare ask, but she sensed things might be better at home between him and Jesse.

  Jesse continued to drop Tory off each morning and on the days she contrived to be standing on the top step at their arrival, all she got from the aloof man was a nod and a tip of his hat. Some days she imagined his eyes lingered on her back as she led the students inside. Once she turned to see, but all she got for her effort was a snap of the reins and the dust of the wagon as it pulled away from the school.

  There was no reason for Jesse’s handsome face to impose itself in her mind, coming forth at odd moments to tease her. No reason at all. And no reason at all for her heart to speed up on the rare occasions Tory might mention something Jesse did or said. And once when he shared what a terrible cook Jesse was, and how his effort at making a stew was so bad as to be un-edible, she joined Tory in laughter. Tory said even the chickens wouldn’t eat it.

  There were occasions when Rose found herself caught off guard and a warmth entered her, making her wish there were some way she could tell Jesse Rivers how much she admired him for trying so hard to be everything to Tory. Tory was the recipient of Jesse’s patience and love. But who was there for Jesse?

  Rose had to force herself to shake off that errant thought. Jesse Rivers wasn’t her problem. And it certainly wasn’t any of her business if the man received love or compassion. The very idea. Why, he didn’t care one whit about her. He barely acknowledged her presence.

  “Miss Bush.” Tory’s voice penetrated her musings.

  “Sorry, Tory. My mind was elsewhere.”

  “Yeah, I had to yell at you.”

  Rose smiled. If he only knew where her mind had flown.

  “What is it?” She placed another cookie on the plate in front of him. He’d already inhaled three but guessing the quality of the supper waiting him, another cookie could do little to spoil his appetite.

  “I’m on lesson LIV.”

  “I know you are. You are about through the book. Can you tell me what numbers those Roman Numerals refer to?”

  “Fifty-four,” he said proudly.

  “That’s right.”

  “Well,” he continued, “do you remember you told me about there being books on botany? You know, the names of the plants and flowers and all about them?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  Tory looked down at his empty plate. “I, uh, I was wondering . . .”

  “Speak up, Tory. I can’t hear you when you’re talking to the dish.”

 
He smiled up at her. Those rare smiles were coming more often.

  “Do you think—”he started rambling, barely holding back his excitement—“do you think I could read outta that book yet?”

  “I don’t know. But there’s one way to find out.” Rose left the kitchen and went into the classroom returning with a thick book entitled, Lessons and Manual of Botany.

  She placed the book in front of Tory.

  Reverently, he traced the gold lettering on the hard cover.

  “Lessons and Manual of Botany,” Rose said.

  Tory repeated the title, as again his fingers outlined each letter. Rose doubted that a man of faith approached the Bible with more reverence.

  Rose turned the book so it was placed between them. “The words are difficult,” she warned.

  Tory nodded, his eyes never leaving the book.

  “Well,” she said with a smile in her voice, “it won’t open itself. Tory, will you do the honors?”

  “Huh?”

  Rose chuckled. “Open the book, Tory. It won’t bite you.”

  Gently, as though the pages would disintegrate at his touch, Tory opened to the Contents.

  “Can you sound out any of the words here, or do any look familiar?”

  “Mmmmorrr,” he sounded, following his fingers over a word under the heading Section III.

  “Mmmm,” he tried again. Then he looked up at her, and Rose’s heart melted at the look of defeat and anguish on his face.

  “I can’t,” he mumbled.

  “Sure you can. You just happened to pick an extremely difficult word. I’d have trouble sounding it.”

  “You would?” he said hopefully.

  “Yes, I’m sure. The word is morphology. The pages under this section will be about the morphology of seedlings.” Rose read from the book. “Morphology is the branch of biology pertaining to the form and structure of plants.”

  Tory’s brow wrinkled and his eyes squinted with questions.

  “Doesn’t tell us much, does it?”

  Disappointed, he shook his head.

  “And that’s why we have this book. To help us understand. Isn’t it wonderful that a professional in this field took the time to write a book so that people like you and I could learn?”

  “I-I guess so.”

  “Of course it is. So how would you feel about spending time after we finish our reading lesson studying this book?”

  His eyes lit up. “You mean it? You think I could read it?”

  “No, not yet, but I think it won’t be long before you can. If you keep trying as hard as you are. Listen, Tory.” She read another sentence. “Red Maple seeds are ripe and ready to germinate at the beginning of summer.”

  “Red Maple.” His tongue stroked the words. “We don’t have Red Maples in Montana, do we?”

  “No, but a botanist must learn about all plants and trees.” Rose again scanned the preface of the book while talking. “This is interesting,” she said excitedly then read the next sentence. “Technical words may seem formidable but the study of botany will be the accumulation of knowledge and ideas.”

  “Formidable,” he repeated. “Does that mean hard?”

  “It does.”

  “Wow! Even the book knows the words are hard. It’s not just me.”

  “No, it’s not just you. You’re not dumb, Tory. In fact, you’re one of the brightest students in my class. You just got off to a slow start.”

  Nothing was said for a few minutes, both intent on the book in front of them.

  Then, Tory jumped from his chair and threw his arms around her. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Rose muffled a gasp.

  Then, like a puff of smoke, Tory was out of the room, vanishing into the gathering dusk.

  Rose got to her feet and, feeling light as a feather, moved about the kitchen. She’d won. She’d broken through the barrier. From now on, there would be no more battles to fight, no more hills to climb. Tory would continue to grow and learn.

  She cut a slice of bread and realized that although she felt joy at reaching this special student, there was an empty space inside her still waiting to be filled. She hated to admit it, and fought the thought when it forced its way through, but the empty spot glowed on the rare occasions she allowed herself to think of Tory’s brother—futile and foolish as that may be. But the time it really shone like a lantern in the dark of night was when she dreamed and planned for the future and the ranch she would someday have.

  Chapter 17

  A loud knock on the vestibule door jarred Rose out of her musings. Thinking Tory had returned, she hurried through the classroom and with a smile on her face she opened the door.

  Seeing that instead of Tory, it was Mr. Whimpstutter, she felt her smile vanish like a thief in the night.

  “Miss Bush.” He gave a short nod and brushed past her.

  “Uh.” Rose swallowed the lump that magically appeared in her throat. “Mr. Whimpstutter. Do come in.”

  “What? Of course I’m in.” He peered closely at her. “Are you all right, Miss Bush?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m fine.” She motioned toward her living quarters. “I was just having a cup of tea. Would you join me?”

  “This is not a social call, Miss Bush. I am here as a representative of the school board. Regretfully, I am here to remind you that one of the rules governing teachers pertains to the, uh, entertaining a male in your private dwellings.” He had the good grace to blush, but his pointed nose quivered like a skinny rat’s, confronting a chunk of cheese.

  “Entertaining?”

  “Please do not interrupt, Miss Bush. We are quite aware that you have nightly assignations with a male student.”

  “A male student?” Parrot like, she repeated his words.

  “Quite.” He stretched his scarecrow frame. “Consistently you have dismissed your class except,” and he paused squinting at her, “for one male student. You have been witnessed taking him into your kitchen and plying him with cookies.”

  “How?” What a stupid question. She knew how, but her mind wasn’t connecting with her tongue.

  “One of the students accidentally glanced in your kitchen window and was quite traumatized by what he saw.”

  “Accidentally?” Was she reduced to one-word questions?

  “You are repeating my words, Miss Bush. This visit is difficult enough without your interruptions. Mrs. Chinney and Mrs. Backley were so shocked by such immoral actions, they begged off from confronting you. And while this is distasteful to me also, I must shield those two ladies and take on this onerous task myself.”

  Rose started to protest, to explain, only to be stopped by Mr. Whimpstutter’s hand, palm out, in front of her face.

  “As I was saying, this must not continue. Tonight concludes your meetings with this male student. Under no circumstances will you proceed with this . . . this distasteful and immoral conduct or your position as teacher in Wise River will be immediately terminated. Miss Bush, we have been very tolerant of your unorthodox methods of teaching. Even allowing pagan items to be hung in your classroom. And your refusal to use the rod is another issue. One that we will discuss at a later date when the ladies are present. To protect his own home-taught morals and Godly principles, a student has been forced to not participate in many of your lessons. This child thirsts for knowledge and is languishing.”

  “Willy.” She loosened her tongue enough to spit out the name.

  “I see you are aware of this.”

  “Mr. Whimpstutter. No, please allow me to explain.” Rose ignored the hand again placed in front of her face. “The male is but a twelve-year-old boy that I am tutoring in reading.”

  “A dunce. A bully,” Mr. Whimpstutter declared.

  “A student. A stu
dent that is now able to read because of my tutoring.”

  “Oh, and I suppose the cookies played a part in this newfound ability?” he said snidely.

  “No, but they put him at ease enough so he could relax and assimilate knowledge. I would do the same for any of my students. Tory Rivers was labeled and neglected by the former teacher. He is bright and anxious to learn.”

  “He is a male and you are violating the rules of conduct you agreed to,” he thundered.

  Rose shook her head in disgust and taking a deep breath tamped down the red mist of anger threatening to explode into the room.

  “He is a child in need of special instruction. And I will continue to provide that instruction regardless of the small minds that construe this into something tawdry.” She pursed her lips. “And regardless of a sneaky little boy that delights in causing trouble and peeking into my window. For shame.”

  Mr. Whimpstutter was shaking. His eyes bulged as he turned on his heel, and giving her one last glaring look, lost no time in exiting the room.

  “You have been warned,” he said ominously, and with head held high, he left, the door swinging in his wake.

  Rose staggered from the room to her kitchen, grasping each passing desk to steady herself. Plopping down at the table, she realized the cozy room of a few short minutes ago had turned into a chilly emptiness. She wasn’t wanted here. She didn’t belong. This was not, and never could be, her home.

  “What am I to do?” The sound of her voice hollow. “Teaching isn’t my heart’s desire, but I need this job.” And feeling a magnitude of despair and helplessness, she took a sip of the cold tea and gazed at the nothingness.

  “You’re late,” Jesse said to the boy blowing into the kitchen like a force of wind. “I almost ate this hunk of steak myself,” Jesse teased, delighted that his and Tory’s relationship had moved to where this was possible. Not only possible, but pleasurable. Jesse found himself thinking about and missing his brother during the day while he was at school. And oddly enough, as much as he resented it, he found himself envying Tory’s time with the arrogant Teacher Bush.