Wooing the Schoolmarm. Dorothy Clark

something fun and exciting to think about. So did Sally.

      She glanced over her shoulder, her heart aching for the little girl curled up on the bench along the railing. It was easy to get Joshua involved in games because he was very competitive. But Sally was different. The little girl had said her stomach hurt and stayed there on the bench while the other children played. Was it shyness or grief over her parents’ deaths that made her so quiet and withdrawn?

      She lifted the plate of cookies she’d saved from the bench and held them ready for the racing, laughing boys and girls. Billy Karcher stretched out his hand and touched the gazebo rail, Joshua right behind him.

      “I win!” Billy tripped up the steps, snatched a cookie from the plate, grinned and took his promised second one. He lisped out, “Thee you tomorrow, Joth!” and jumped to the ground. Joshua waved at his new friend, turned and grabbed a cookie.

      Willa resisted the temptation to smooth back the blond curls that had fallen over his brown eyes and contented herself with a smile. “A race well run, Joshua.”

      He grinned, a slow, lopsided grin that lifted the left side of his mouth, and flopped down on the bench beside his sister. “I’ll beat him next time!”

      He looked so different! So happy and carefree. The way a six-year-old should look. If only Sally would have joined in the games. She sighed and turned her attention back to the children grabbing cookies and saying goodbye.

      * * *

      “I find no words adequate to express my appreciation for your having come to my aid this afternoon, Miss Wright.” Matthew smiled at Joshua busy kicking maple leaves into a pile while Sally leaned against the tree trunk and watched. “Or for engaging Joshua in the games.”

      “It was easy enough. Joshua is very competitive.”

      His gaze veered back to fasten on her. “I suppose I should correct him for bragging about that race, but I’m too happy to see that smile on his face. And, truth be told, I feel like bragging about it myself. I saw those boys, some of them had to be two or three years older than Joshua.”

      There was a definite glint of pride in the pastor’s eyes. It seemed the competitive spirit ran in the Calvert family. “You’re right, they are.” She turned to look at Joshua, smiled and shook her head. “I’ve no doubt I will have my hands full at recess time tomorrow. Joshua declares he will beat Billy the next time they race, and I hear the ring of a challenge in those words.”

      “Do you want me to speak with him about it?”

      The pastor’s voice was controlled, but there was an underlying reluctance in it. She glanced his way. “No, I do not, Reverend Calvert. I am accustomed to handling the exuberance of young children. And I believe a few challenges, given and taken with his new schoolmates, is exactly what Joshua needs—under the circumstances.”

      She bent and picked up the plate she had left on the porch after her earlier, impromptu picnic with Joshua and Sally.

      “I believe today proved that to be true, Miss Wright. This is the first time since Robert and Judith’s deaths that Joshua has really played as a youngster should. I think he’s going to be all right. I cannot tell you how grateful I am. But I’m concerned about Sally.”

      There was a heaviness in his voice. She turned. He was looking at the children, his face drawn with sorrow. She drew in her breath, told herself to keep quiet and leave. But she couldn’t turn away from a hurting child. “I don’t mean to pry, Reverend Calvert, but it’s very difficult to engage Sally’s interest in playing with the others. She is very quiet and withdrawn for a young child. And, though she tries very hard to hide them, I have seen tears in her eyes. I thought it was her shyness, but perhaps it is grief?”

      “She misses her mother terribly. And it’s hard for me to understand about girl things. Joshua is easier—I know about boys.” He scrubbed his hand over his neck, turned and looked at her. “It’s difficult dealing with their grief. It’s only been six weeks since my brother and his wife died in the carriage accident. It was such a shock that I am still trying to handle my own grief. But I have talked to the children, tried to explain about God’s mercy, and that they will see their mother and father again…” He took another breath and looked away.

      She drew breath into her own lungs, forced them to expand against the tightness in her chest. “Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude on your privacy.” She started down the path to the wood walkway.

      “Wait! Please.”

      She paused, squared her shoulders and turned.

      His lips lifted in a wry smile. “Once again I must appeal to you for help, Miss Wright. I am a pastor, not a cook, and the children and I are getting tired of eating eggs for every meal. I need a housekeeper, but it must be someone who understands children and will be careful of their grief. I thought, perhaps, as you are familiar with everyone in the village, you could suggest someone I could interview?”

      She drew her gaze from the sadness in his eyes and gathered her thoughts. Who was available who would also understand the special needs of the Calvert children? “I believe Bertha Franklin might suit. She’s a lovely, kind woman, an excellent cook…and no stranger to sorrow. And she definitely understands children. She has raised eight of her own. If you wish, I can stop and ask her to come by and see you tomorrow. Her home is on my way.”

      “I would appreciate that, Miss Wright.” His gaze captured hers. “And thank you again for watching the children this afternoon. And for helping Joshua remember how to play.”

      His soft words brought tears to her eyes. She nodded, spun about and hurried down the wood walkway toward town.

      * * *

      Willa dipped her fingers in the small crock, rubbed them together, then spread the cream on her face and neck. A faint fragrance of honeysuckle hovered. She replaced the lid, tied the ribbons at the neck of her cotton nightgown and reached up to free her hair from its confining roll. The chestnut-colored mass tumbled onto her shoulders and down her back. She brushed it free of snarls, gathered it at the nape of her neck with a ribbon and stepped back from the mirror.

      The touch of her bare feet against the plank floor sent a shiver prickling along her flesh. She hopped back onto the small, rag rug in front of the commode stand and rubbed her upper arms. The nights were turning colder, the air taking on the bite that announced winter was on its way. Thank goodness the company loggers kept her mother well supplied with firewood. And the parents of her students provided wood for the stove at school. There was already a large pile outside the back door.

      She sighed, stepped off the rug and hurried to the window to push the curtain hems against the crack along the sill to block the cold air seeping in around the frame. Tomorrow morning she would start her winter schedule. She would rise early and go to school and light a fire in the stove to chase away the night chill. And then she would make a list of boys to help her keep the woodbox full throughout the winter.

      She stepped to her nightstand, cupped her hand around the chimney globe, blew out the flame then climbed into bed. Two boys working together in weeklong rotations should be sufficient. Joshua and Billy would be the first team. She gave a soft laugh, tugged the covers close and snuggled down against her pillow. Those two boys would probably race to see who could carry in the most wood in the shortest time.

      An image of Joshua’s happy, lopsided grin formed against the darkness. He certainly looked like his uncle. And so did Sally, in a small, feminine way. Tears burned at the back of her eyes. Those poor children, losing both of their parents so unexpectedly. She had been devastated when her father left, and she’d had her mother to comfort her. Of course, Joshua and Sally had their uncle. He had looked concerned for the children when he talked with her. But that didn’t mean his concern was real. Her father had seemed concerned for her before he turned his back and walked away never to return. But why would Matthew Calvert bother to put on an act for her? The children were not her concern.

      Once again I must appeal to you for help, Miss Wright.

      Oh,