Second Chance Bride. Jane Myers Perrine

the tone well modulated. Neat and clean and a good example for the girls in her class. That was strictly all that mattered about the exterior of a teacher.

      But she seemed so very young. Although Miss Cunningham had written she was twenty-three, she didn’t look over twenty. Of course, there are people like that, who look younger than they are in actual years.

      Miss Cunningham seemed like a moral young woman, not the kind of young woman who flirted with men like the previous teacher. Twice when he’d approached Miss Cunningham, she’d pulled away. She’d seemed almost afraid of him, but that was to be expected from an honorable young woman.

      And yet something bothered him, something besides her looks and age. He couldn’t nail down what it was. It had something to do with her reaction when he mentioned that the students were eager to start class. Surprise, almost shock. Even her confusion after the accident couldn’t explain that to his satisfaction.

      He’d visit with her tomorrow and see if he could discover what troubled him. He’d allow her to teach for a few weeks. If she didn’t measure up to the standards of the school board, well, actually, they could do nothing. It had taken months to find a teacher of quality like Miss Cunningham. No one wanted to come to Trail’s End. The school board had been fortunate to find someone who needed a position as much as they needed a teacher. It would be impossible to find another this year.

      “Buenas noches, Señor Sullivan,” Ramon said as his boss drove into the stable.

      “Ramon, what are you doing out here so late?” He stepped out of the surrey and tossed the reins to the man. “You should be home with your family.”

      “Gracias, señor. El viejo fell today. I made the old man rest.”

      “Duffy fell?” What was he going to do about Duffy? After he was thrown from a horse last year, John had given him the easiest job on the ranch to keep him safe. He might need to hire another man to take the load off Ramon and keep an eye on Duffy.

      “Tried to put a bridle up on a hook. Lost his balance and fell off the bench he was standing on.”

      “I’ll check on him,” John said. “I still don’t expect you to work these long hours. Understand?”

      “Sí, señor.”

      “After you finish with the horses, go home to your family.”

      As he spoke, John started toward the small room in the back of the stable where Duffy Smith lived. He preferred the room in the stable to sharing the bunkhouse with the younger, rowdier hands.

      The elderly man had taught him everything he knew about caring for animals. He’d always worked hard. Too proud to rest at seventy, he still expected to do his share. That caused John no end of trouble and worry, but also made him proud. He’d probably be exactly the same in thirty-five years.

      The room was barely large enough for a narrow bed, small table and a dresser. A lamp glowed in the corner. Duffy’s skinny body could barely be seen under the colorful quilt Celeste had made for him,

      “All right, Duffy. What’s this I hear about you?” John held up his hand as the older man struggled to get up. “Don’t try to get out of bed. Stay there.”

      Duffy’s expression was sheepish behind his full beard and thick mustache, both streaked with gray. “I’m fine.” He shook his head. “Stupid bench threw me, boss.”

      Just like Duffy to blame it on the bench. He hated getting old as much as John hated watching it happen. “Do you have everything you need?”

      “The boys took real good care of me. I’m going to have a good night’s sleep, and then I’ll be back to work in the morning.”

      John shook his head. “You are the most stubborn man I know. Would it hurt you to rest for a few more days?”

      Duffy glared at him. “Yes, boss, it would. I’m tough.”

      “Stubborn old coot.” John shook his head. “I give up.” He turned toward the door and said over his shoulder, “Take care of yourself.”

      “Always do, boss,” Duffy retorted.

      Once out of the building, John headed across the stable yard to enter the house. He climbed the stairs and with a few strides down the hall, he entered his daughter’s room. He knew that with the trip to town and helping the new teacher to settle in, he’d be home too late to see Elizabeth before bedtime, to tuck her in and hear her prayers. But he wanted to see her anyway.

      Silently, he moved across the floor until he stood next to the bed and watched her sleep, the moonlight illuminating her innocent face. With a smile, he leaned down, kissed her check and smoothed the blanket over her shoulders.

      Elizabeth had always been more his daughter than Celeste’s. With her endless energy and constant chatter, she’d worn her mother out, but he’d loved riding with the child, reading to her and caring for her as she grew up.

      How have I been so blessed to have this beautiful child?

      As he readied himself for bed, he thought again of the new schoolteacher, unable to rid himself of the nagging doubt. How to handle the situation, to assure the community—and himself—that Miss Cunningham had been the correct choice, even though she’d also been the only choice?

      He’d keep an eye on her until he felt comfortable. For his daughter’s sake, for the sake of all the children in the community, he would make sure all was right with the new schoolteacher. After all, he’d accepted the challenge to find a teacher. He’d hired her. He was responsible.

      He was a Sullivan.

      Pain—excruciating pain—and the sensation of turning and twisting, of lurching and rocking racked Annie. She grabbed the side of the coach and reached out for Matilda.

      But the young woman wasn’t there. With a sob, Annie woke up and attempted to sort out where she was and what had happened, why her right arm, her head and both legs—in fact, her entire body—hurt so much.

      It was early morning. She knew that by the tendril of sunlight breaking through darkness to illuminate a narrow strip of ceiling. In the distance, a rooster crowed. In the dim light, she could make out something dark that stiffened her right sleeve. When she rubbed the cloth between her fingers, it crinkled. Blood, she realized.

      Her arm throbbed. The blue skirt had wrapped itself around her legs. She shrieked in pain as she tried to untangle herself.

      Most amazingly, she was alone on a clean bed in a room with white walls, spotless white walls. No sound of raucous celebration came from the other side of the wall.

      “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