John’s gaze held hers.

All she could think about was how blue his eyes were, not cold as she’d thought earlier. His smile, even the tiny sliver he showed her, made her breathless. She didn’t feel at all like Annie or Matilda, but instead like a new, very happy and slightly unsure young woman.

“You have a wonderful laugh,” he said in a voice that made Annie believe he’d felt the same way about their shared moment.

What was happening between the two of them? She was overcome by a need to know more about the man. He slowly reached out and took her hand, looking at her as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world.

His daughter Elizabeth’s voice shattered the enchanting moment. “Father, I’m tired.”

In an instant, he let go of her hand. She put both hands to her cheeks. How could she have dared to look at John like that? And yet, he’d returned her gaze and held her hand. If she weren’t so happy, she’d be completely terrified.

MILLS & BOON

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JANE MYERS PERRINE

grew up in Kansas City, Missouri, has a B.A. from Kansas State University and an M.Ed. in Spanish from the University of Louisville. She has taught high school Spanish in five states. Presently she teaches in the beautiful hill country of Texas. Her husband is minister of a Christian church in Central Texas where Jane teaches an adult Sunday school class. Jane was a finalist in the Regency category of the Golden Heart Awards. Her short pieces have appeared in the Houston Chronicle, Woman’s World magazine and other publications. The Perrines share their home with two spoiled cats and an arthritic cocker spaniel. Readers can visit her Web page, www.janemyersperrine.com.

Jane Myers Perrine
Second Chance Bride

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.

—Philippians 3:13–14

This book is dedicated to Betty Davis Lynn,

who has been a friend for longer than I can

remember. Thank you for all these years of

friendship and your Christian example.

Also to two friends and critique partners:

Ellen Watkins and Linda Kearney,

who keep me headed in the right direction.

And, as always, to my husband George for his love

and support, even when he hated hearing those

three little words—I’m on deadline.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Questions for Discussion

Prologue

Central Texas, 1885

Annie MacAllister’s father had always told her she’d never amount to anything because she never thought anything through. Maybe he was right. Maybe that’s how she’d ended up in this swaying stagecoach while a disapproving woman glared at her in disgust and a dumpy man across from Annie leered.

Only an hour after the stagecoach left Weaver City, she tried to disappear, to shrink back into the hard bench of the stagecoach. She heard the elderly woman mutter, “Common.”

Annie knew why the woman said that. Annie wore a cheap dress, tight across the bodice and fraying at the cuffs. Her long hair curled over her shoulders, and she wore paint on her lips and cheeks.

The expression on the man’s face showed that he knew exactly what Annie was—an immoral woman who’d worked in a brothel. What he didn’t know was how much she’d hated every minute of it—how she’d been forced into it.

Next to Annie sat a young woman who wore an undecorated black straw hat and a plain, gray cotton skirt. Her matching basque was trimmed with what had been a crisp white collar when she got on the coach but was now limp and soiled from the dust of the trip.

“Is this your first trip in a stagecoach?” the young woman asked Annie in a soft, educated voice.

Well, if that wasn’t a surprise. The woman actually spoke to her in a friendly way. “Yes,” Annie answered, then added, “ma’am.”

“Mine, too.” She smiled. “My name is Matilda Susan Cunningham.” Miss Cunningham spoke clearly, just like Annie’s mother had, although that was so long ago it was hard for Annie to remember.

“Miss Cunningham.” Annie nodded. “I’m Annie MacAllister.”

“Where are you going, Miss MacAllister?” Miss Cunningham asked.

“Trail’s End.”

“I’m going there, too.” Miss Cunningham nodded. “Will your family meet you?”

Annie shook her head.

“My employer will meet me,” Miss Cunningham said.

“Not your family, Miss Cunningham?” Annie almost bit her tongue. She should know not to pry.

“Please, do call me Matilda, won’t you?”

Annie nodded, delighted by the attention of this kind woman.

“No, my family won’t meet me.” Matilda sighed. “My parents died when I was thirteen. My brother, only two months ago. That’s why I had to find employment.”

As Matilda looked out the window, Annie realized that they looked a little alike. They both had dark hair and dark eyes, and were tall and thin, although she’d noticed when they’d waited for the stage that Matilda carried herself proudly while Annie hunched over.

When the coach stopped at a home station, all the passengers got off and entered the small frame building. Annie gazed yearningly at the beans and greasy meat the cook stirred and slapped on a tin plate.

“One dollar,” said the station agent.

She only had three dollars and fifty-one cents to last her until she found work. She was hungry but not hungry enough to spend a penny yet. She went out to the porch and washed her hands in the pewter basin.

“Would you share some of this meal with me?” Matilda stood on the porch with her plate. “I don’t believe I can eat all of it. If you don’t mind helping me, I would appreciate that.”

Wasn’t she the nicest lady? To make charity sound as if Annie were doing a good deed for her. “Thank you, Matilda.”

“Let’s say a prayer first.” Matilda bowed her head. “Dear Lord, we thank You for Your bounty. We thank You for leading us into new lives and know You will be with us wherever our paths take us. Amen.”

Annie had been so startled she hadn’t had time to bow her head before Matilda began to pray. She hadn’t heard a prayer since her mother’s funeral. Matilda’s prayers were probably answered. God hadn’t bothered to grant any of Annie’s.

As the afternoon wore on, the pitching and jolting of the coach changed to a rocking motion, and everyone slept. At a stop in Rotain, the leering man left. An hour after that, the disapproving woman got off with one more glare at Annie. Oh, how Annie wished people could see her for the person she was, not for the deeds she’d been forced to commit to survive.

Well, that was the very reason she was on this coach. When she couldn’t stand her life for one more day, she’d pulled together every penny she’d saved. Most of it had gone to buy the ticket to Trail’s End, a town the ticket agent said no one ever visited. Once there, she’d get a new job, maybe cleaning houses or even working in a shop. She’d live an upright and respectable life and wouldn’t have to put up with slurs and lecherous glances.

Matilda and Annie were alone on the last leg of the journey. They chatted for a while until the warmth of the coach caused Annie to fall asleep. She dozed until the lurching of the vehicle woke her with a start.

The motion flung her against Matilda, then tossed them both against the door on the other side of the coach. Annie grabbed the leather curtain and held it tightly, but Matilda’s flailing hands couldn’t grasp anything to keep her from ricocheting around the interior. She was thrown hard against a window. Then she smashed into the door on the right side and it made a loud crack and opened wide. The young woman flew from the carriage, screaming in pain and terror.

For a few seconds, Matilda’s screams continued.

Then the cries stopped. Completely.

The coach finally came down on the right side with a terrible crash. Annie’s ankles twisted beneath her, and her head hit the door frame.

Dust billowed up and engulfed her. Tears ran down her face, mixing with Matilda’s blood, as well as her own, as it streamed from a cut on her head. Silence shrouded the coach until a man shouted from above her, “Are you all right in there?”

“I’m—” Annie croaked. She swallowed and said in a shaking voice, “I’m alive but the other woman—” She sobbed, the words catching in her throat.

The driver opened the door above her, reached down and pulled her up. The pain in her arm was sharp.

Once she stood on the road, Annie looked at herself. She was covered in blood and grime, her pink dress smeared with splatters and splotches of red while blood stained her sleeve as it dripped from a gash on her arm.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Wheel came off. Spooked the horses,” the driver said. “I’m going to have to ride to town to get a new one.” He looked inside the coach again. “Where’s the other passenger?”

“Back there,” Annie said, and pointed fifty yards behind. Fresh tears rolled down her dirty, scraped cheeks. “She fell out.”

In spite of the pain, Annie ran toward Matilda, who lay absolutely still. “Matilda,” she whispered as she took one of her friend’s limp hands.

“No use.” The driver shook his head. “She’s dead, ma’am. Looks like a broken neck.”

Annie sobbed. Matilda had been nicer to Annie than anyone in years. She’d had a future. Someone would meet her in Trail’s End and help her get settled. Someone expected her. She’d been on the way to a place where she’d begin a new position, where she’d be respected and admired.

How sad that a decent, upright woman with a future had died and left the woman who’d worked in a brothel behind. It should have been Annie. She had no future. No one would miss her. No one cared about her. No one even knew where she was.

Annie should have been the one to die.

“Do you know her name, ma’am?”

As she stood there, Annie remembered the words of that haughty passenger, how people had called her terrible names for years, how men always tried to take advantage of her. Memories of all the slurs and beatings and sins that were her life assailed her. Annie would never be able to get away from that. Never. No matter what jobs she found or how far she traveled, people would always recognize Annie as the woman from the brothel, cheap and sinful and beneath them. Women would judge and men would leer.

She didn’t want that following her for the rest of her life.

She took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before she said, “Her name was Annie MacAllister.”

Chapter One

“I am Matilda Susan Cunningham.” Annie said clearly as she stood on the deserted street—the only street—of Trail’s End and considered her words. Matilda had spoken like a woman of education, exactly the way Annie wished she spoke. Oh, not that she hadn’t tried to improve her speech. She was a natural mimic. Her father used to say she put on airs. Then he’d hit her.

“I am Matilda Susan Cunningham,” Annie repeated, enunciating clearly.

The wind blew dust in Annie’s face, then swirled down the street and around the dry goods and grocer’s store on her left. Behind her was a rickety building, maybe a hotel. It looked as if the wind could knock it over.

Across the street, the dust blew through the doors of a saloon flanked by a bank and a small building that looked like an office. The sheriff’s, perhaps. Further down the street huddled a few more little white buildings, all nearly hidden in the approaching dusk of early evening.

At the end of town stood a church. At least she thought the small white building with a squat tower was a church, but it might be a school or a home.

That was all.

If she lived here long enough, she’d learn what all the buildings were, but now she wanted nothing more than to go wherever that unknown employer was supposed to take her. Every part of her body ached. The scrapes on her legs and the bump on her head throbbed while the wound on her arm continued to bleed.

And she was afraid, deathly afraid. What would happen if no one came? If her masquerade were discovered? So many ifs and so few certainties.

In her hand, Annie carried Matilda’s purse. Inside, she found two letters, a clean handkerchief, a comb, seven dollar bills, a few coins and some pennies. Including Matilda’s meager savings, Annie now had a total of ten dollars and eighty-six cents. How long would that last?

The wind continued to blow down the rutted main street, pulling Annie’s hair from its tight bun. It swirled around the prim blue skirt she’d taken from Matilda’s satchel and tried to lift it above her now properly shod feet.

Trail’s End really was the end of the trail.

As she searched the street for signs of her employer, Annie thought about the accident. After the driver left for the new wheel, she’d checked on the injured guard who lay unconscious by the coach. Then she’d changed into Matilda’s clothing and picked up the woman’s new valise. When the men returned, they loaded Annie and the guard into a wagon.

“What about…about Miss MacAllister?” Annie had asked.

“We’ll come back and bury the woman out here. No room in the wagon,” said the driver.

With that, the wagon took off. During the ride to town, the poor guard moaned with every bump in the rough road. Annie had tried to calm him, but her experience with men had been of an entirely different nature. She used to sing to her father before his drinking got bad, so she tried singing to the guard, softly, songs she had learned as a child from her beautiful but fragile mother. The guard quieted.

After leaving the injured man at the doctor’s farm, the driver had brought Annie into town and abandoned her in the middle of the street. At her feet sat the small valise that contained everything Annie now owned. She’d stood clutching her purse and looking around for at least an hour, attempting to decide what to do.

While she waited, the sun dropped behind the horizon and the breeze grew cool. Had Matilda been mistaken when she said someone would meet her in Trail’s End? Annie looked up and down the street, but it was still deserted. No sign of anyone.

When a light went on above the saloon, Annie glanced up where she saw shadows moving behind the windows. She knew who they belonged to and knew that the women in those rooms were looking down at her, wondering who she was. Annie straightened her back and lifted her chin.

“I am Matilda Susan Cunningham,” she said.

She considered sitting in one of the chairs on the porch of the hotel but feared they were reserved for guests. If no one showed up, would her money buy her a bed for the night? Probably. However, with no idea of what her future held, she couldn’t afford to spend even one penny.

But someone was coming for her. Matilda had said that.

Annie picked up her right foot to ease the pinching caused by the oxfords she’d taken from Matilda’s body. She’d hated doing it, but she figured a generous woman like Matilda would have wanted her to. At least, she hoped so. The wind blew down the street again, colder after sunset.

When it was dark, a few men rode into Trail’s End, tied their horses and entered the saloon. Without hesitation, Annie turned away from them and picked up her valise. She hurried as fast as her aching legs would take her toward the hotel and the comforting light that spilled out from the open door.

She decided she didn’t care if someone from the hotel tried to run her off. She was staying. She dropped the valise and lowered herself onto a chair. Perhaps she would have to spend the night here. She shivered again.

“Miss Cunningham?”

She’d fallen asleep, she realized. With a shake of her head, Annie attempted to wake up. Who was this Miss Cunningham? She quickly realized that she was Miss Cunningham and she jumped to her feet, every joint in her body complaining.

“Yes, sir,” she said, ignoring the pain.

In the light streaming through the open door of the hotel, she could see the man. Handsome but serious, tall and strong, clean shaven with thick black hair and a square chin. Concern showed in his blue eyes. Solemnly, he studied her face for a moment, which made her want to turn away, to escape his perusal. Then she remembered who she was and stood up, tall and proud.

“I’m sorry you have had such a wait,” he said in a deep, commanding voice. “The stage was supposed to bring you to my ranch. I didn’t hear about the accident until I arrived in town to look for you. I hope you haven’t been too uncomfortable.”

He reached for her, and she started to leap away out of habit until she realized that he was reacting to the blood on her sleeve.

“You’ve been hurt, Miss Cunningham.”

“A few bruises and scrapes. This,” she said, looking at her arm, “and a cut on my head.” She leaned against the chair to steady herself.

He surveyed her, his eyes moving from what she thought must be a bruise on her cheek and to the blood on her sleeve and skirt. “Let’s get you back to the ranch.”

She started again when he leaned forward, but he’d only picked up her valise. Of course.

“Is this all your luggage?”

“Yes, sir.” She looked at his back as he strode away toward a trim little surrey, then hurried after him. He carried nearly everything she had, and she didn’t even know who he was or the location of the ranch where he was taking her.

“And you are?” She lifted her head and spoke in the tone that she thought Matilda would use in this situation, strong and certain, despite the hunger, exhaustion, fear and pain competing for her attention.

“I’m sorry.” He turned back toward her. “I’m John Matthew Sullivan, a member of the school board and president of the bank. Certainly you know that from my letters.”

He smiled at her, an expression that showed both confusion and concern, a smile that so changed his stern visage that it might have warmed her except that she knew how easily men’s smiles could come and go. Instead she said, “Oh, yes. Your letters.” She put her hand on her forehead. “It has been a difficult day.”

“It must have been.” He placed the valise on the floor of the vehicle. “Do you feel well enough to start school tomorrow?”

She stopped, one foot inside the surrey, the other on the ground. She couldn’t move as she struggled to make sense of his words. “Start school tomorrow?” she repeated.

She didn’t want to go to school. What kind of school would there be in such a tiny place? What would they expect her to study and why?

“I know it’s soon, but the students are so glad you’re here. Because it was so difficult to find a qualified teacher, they’ve been out since the term ended last April. They’re eager to get started again.”

Teacher? I’m a teacher?

Oh, dear. Annie bit her lip. Matilda had been a teacher.

“Are you all right, Miss Cunningham?” he said, studying her closely.

She placed her hand on her aching head. No, she was not all right, but she was not going to tell Mr. Sullivan that and destroy her chance to sleep in a bed tonight.

“It’s obvious you’re exhausted. We’ll postpone class until Wednesday so you may rest.”

“That would be nice.”

He handed her into the surrey, touching her arm for a moment to steady her. Then, as she settled herself in the carriage, he smiled at her, a flash of warmth lighting his eyes. Annie quickly looked away. She did not like it when men smiled at her that way. It made her want to run.

“You may have noticed that Trail’s End is not a large town, but the people are friendly.” He got in on the other side of the surrey and snapped the reins over the horses. “This area is beautiful in the spring.”

The carriage was splendid, new and shiny with leather seats. The matched bays trotted in time with each other. Obviously Mr. Sullivan was a wealthy man.

“Where are we going?” Here she sat, in a vehicle with a man she’d never met, heading off to who-knew-where. Curious and frightened, she wished she could have read those letters Matilda had carried in her purse. “Is the ranch far?”

He looked at her again with a puzzled glance. “As I told you in my letter, you’ll live in a room that adjoins the schoolhouse. It’s located just a few minutes from my home and about as far from town.”

The bays frisked along the road. After only a few minutes, he slowed and turned between stone pillars. “This is my ranch, the J bar M.” He pointed at a sign over the drive.

J bar M. Annie carefully studied the sign. “The J bar M,” she said.

In silence, they rode down a smooth dirt drive and turned onto a rougher trace. They traveled only a minute or two before Mr. Sullivan halted the surrey.

“Here we are.” He jumped from the vehicle.

Annie searched both sides of the road until she spotted a stone building on the edge of the clearing, partially hidden by trees.

“Miss Cunningham?”

His voice startled her, as did the way he addressed her. She must get used to her new name as quickly as possible. With a jerk, she looked to her right where he stood ready to hand her down from the carriage. What would Matilda do in this situation? No one had ever helped Annie from a surrey. In fact, she’d never been in a surrey, but she’d seen enough to know she shouldn’t leap out on her own.

She suddenly remembered the mayor’s wife in Weaver City getting out of their wagon. She’d put her hand in her husband’s and let him steady her as she descended. So that’s what Annie did. As soon as she was on the ground, he dropped her hand and stepped away, smiling at her again with that look in his eye.

She’d seen that expression flicker in men’s eyes before, but those were rude men, men who frequented saloons or tried to take advantage of young women in the stagecoach. Mr. Sullivan seemed different, upright. She must have misunderstood his smile, his warm gaze.

Scolding herself, she lifted her gaze to study the building for a few seconds. “It’s very pretty.”

“Yes, it’s made of gray limestone, quarried only a few miles from here.” He picked up her valise. “My wife chose the material shortly before her death,” he said matter-of-factly.

Along the side of the building were three windows with clear glass that reflected the light of a bright moonrise.

“I’ll go inside and light a lamp.” He headed toward the building, going up two steps before disappearing through a door. In no time, a glow from an oil lamp shone softly through the windows.

As Annie entered, she saw six rough benches, each with a narrow table in front of it, and a desk—oh, my, her desk—in the front of the room, on a little platform. Stacked on the desk were a pile of slates and another stack of books of various sizes. The sight alarmed her.

“This is the schoolroom,” Mr. Sullivan said, “as, I am sure, you must have surmised.”

Surmised. Annie rolled the word around in her mind. It had such a weighty feeling. “Yes, I’d surmised that.” She nodded.

He motioned toward a narrow room at the other end of the building. “That’s the kitchen. You’ll warm the students’ lunches there and may use it to prepare your own meals.”

So that’s how schools did things. “How many students are there?”

Even in the faint glow of the lamp, Annie could see his puzzled expression. He must have written Matilda about that, too. “Twelve. Not a terribly large group to teach, but they are in all the grades from one through seven.”

“I’d forgotten.” She nodded again, precisely, a gesture that seemed to belong to her new character.

“Your bed and drawers for your personal accoutrements are through this door,” he said as he put the bag on the floor in front of it.

Accoutrements. Another word to remember. “I have few accoutrements.”

“There is a door to the outside in your room.” He pointed. “The facility is behind the building.”

She nodded again.

“Several of the mothers cleaned the building to prepare for your arrival. You have a new mattress, several towels and clean bedclothes.”

“How nice of them. I must thank them.”

“I’ll leave you now to settle in. The children will arrive at seven-thirty on Wednesday. I trust you will be ready for them?”

“Yes, Mr. Sullivan.”

“A lamp is on your desk with a box of matches next to it.” For a moment, he studied the bruise on her cheek and her arm. “Miss Cunningham, may I send our cook, a fine woman, to help you with your wounds?”

“Thank you, but I’ll take care of them myself. I’m very tired.”

He nodded. “Then I’ll wish you good-night.”

“Good night, Mr. Sullivan.”

His hand brushed her arm as he moved to the door. At the contact, he stopped and glanced at her as if trying to decide whether he should apologize, and then he turned away quickly, opened the door and closed it behind him.

A woman could fall in love with a handsome, caring man like that without trying, but not Annie. No, she’d learned a great deal about handsome men and ugly ones, and she didn’t trust either. With a shake of her head, she told herself to forget her past. It was over, and she was ready to start her new life, preferably without any men, handsome or ugly.

She surveyed the amazing place to which her deception had led her. For a moment, being in a schoolroom made her feel an utter lack of confidence until she reminded herself she was no longer Annie MacAllister and straightened her posture. She was Miss Matilda Cunningham, the composed and educated schoolteacher of Trail’s End.

Well, she would be for at least a few days, until someone discovered she was not Miss Matilda Cunningham. During that time, she’d be warm and fed and safe, which was enough for now. With that bit of comfort, she picked up the lamp in her left hand, pushed the valise ahead of her with her foot and entered her bedroom.

It was tiny, but it belonged to her, at least temporarily. Even as her muscles protested, she turned slowly around the small space and smiled. It was hers alone! The narrow bed had been pushed against the rough, wooden inside wall. Two hooks hung beside the window, and a dresser stood next to the door out to the privy. When she placed the oil lamp on the dresser, the light wavered. Was it low on oil? Slipping her shoes off, she thought a sensible young woman would go to bed before it got so dark she would need a lamp.

But a sensible young woman would not find herself in a position like this. Annie lowered herself onto the bed and contemplated the fix she’d landed herself in when she’d assumed Matilda’s identity.

No, a sensible young woman would not find herself teaching school when she didn’t know how to read or write.

Chapter Two

John Matthew Sullivan snapped the reins over the heads of his horses as they trotted down the short road between the schoolhouse and his home. He’d chosen the pair carefully—they had exactly the right stride to pull the surrey he’d had built to his specifications. Painstaking and cautious described him well, characteristics passed on to him by his father.

But for him, the value of the animals lay in their magnificence and spirit, the sheer beauty of their matched paces and movement.

Beauty. His thoughts came back to the new teacher. Although he’d investigated her references carefully and heartily recommended Miss Cunningham to the school board, tonight he hadn’t felt completely confident about the young woman who was to teach his daughter and the children of the community. She’d written fine letters, had exceptional recommendations and excellent grades from the teachers’ college. However, this evening she’d behaved oddly, seeming uncertain and confused.

Of course, she’d just been in an accident, one in which another young woman had died. She had a wound on her arm. Bruises, cuts and blood covered her.

Small wonder she was distressed and flustered. She was understandably upset from her experience. So what flaw could she possess that now nagged at him?

He slowed to allow an armadillo to saunter across the road and considered the question.

She was too young and too pretty to be a teacher. Under the grime—in spite of it, actually—she was very attractive with thick, dark hair and what he thought to be rich, brown eyes. As a respectable widower and pillar of the community, he shouldn’t have noticed that. As a man, how could he not?

Of course, Miss Cunningham wasn’t as lovely as his dear wife, Celeste, had been, but even with the dark bruise on her cheek, he could see her features were regular and, well, appealing. But definitely not as fine as Celeste’s had been. His wife, alas, had been a fragile woman. Miss Cunningham appeared to be the opposite.

Even with the stains on it, her dress had been modest and ladylike. Her speech had been clear and precise, 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 stove, she found a can of tomatoes and an empty cracker tin. The other cupboard was bare except for several dead crickets and a shriveled piece of something Annie couldn’t identify but wasn’t hungry enough to try.

She’d eaten less than tomatoes for breakfast before, but at least she’d had a can opener then. Now she didn’t. Certainly no one expected her to go without food, although never having been a teacher before, she didn’t know. She thought Matilda would have brought food with her if that had been a requirement. Perhaps she could find Mr. Sullivan’s house and ask him.

She picked up the bucket by the door of her bedroom, carried it outside and filled it from the pump in the yard, moving carefully. She saw no firewood so went back inside, took off her clothing and washed in cold water. Nothing unusual there. When she finished scrubbing off the grime and carefully cleaning the wounds on her arm and head, she put her bloodstained clothing in the water to soak.

Then she turned toward the valise. She hadn’t had time the previous day to do more than pull a skirt and basque from the suitcase. Today she needed to see what else was inside. She took a deep breath. She did not look forward to exploring Matilda’s personal effects. Taking on the identity of a dead woman had been more difficult, complicated and emotional than she’d ever considered.

Inside were two dark skirts, simple and austere with a pleat down the back, like the one she wore. One was brown and the other black. She pulled out two matching basques, each with new white collars and worn but spotless cuffs, and hung them next to the skirts. Under them, Annie found a lovely white jersey with a short braided front and jet beads around the high neck. For special events, Annie decided as she stroked and savored the softness.

Then came a black shawl, a pair of knitted slippers, several pairs of black cotton stockings, five handkerchiefs, a few more hairpins, a sewing kit and a small box. Reluctantly, she opened the little package. Inside she found a silver watch to pin on the front of her basque. When Annie ran her finger over the engraved vines, tears began to slide down her cheeks. This must have been the teacher’s prized possession.

She set the watch down and forced herself to continue. In the bottom of the bag were two books, a notebook filled with writing and many little pictures and another letter. Annie was completely overwhelmed. She’d never had so many nice things. She’d never owned cotton stockings or a cashmere jersey or any jewelry.

Annie put on the black skirt, buttoned the basque up the front and then pulled on the slippers. With no mirror in the little room, she smoothed her hair back into a bun as best she could.

Then she wandered into the empty schoolroom. She didn’t want to be there—and yet she did, very much. She was curious and excited and more than a little afraid with absolutely no idea how she would teach twelve children what she herself did not know. But she felt safe here. She would soon have wood and coal and perhaps something to eat.

She touched the books on her desk and opened one. What did those black marks stand for? She ran her hand down the page as if she could absorb their meaning. The paper felt rough and cold. The circles and lines and odd curlicues printed there fascinated and confounded her. Here and there she recognized a J and an M.

A yearning filled Annie. She’d always wanted to go to school. She remembered her mother telling her she was smart when she was just a child.

But after her mother died, her father said educating a woman was a waste. After all, he’d said, what more does a woman need to know than how to clean and cook and sew? She didn’t need to be able to read to take care of a man.

That was about all Annie needed to know. As her father drank and gambled more, she’d had to work to support them. Only seven years old, she started cleaning houses. If she didn’t earn enough for his whiskey, he beat her until she learned to leave the money on the porch and sleep outside.

Then he’d killed a man in a drunken rage, was hanged and the house was sold to satisfy his debts. When no one would hire George MacAllister’s daughter, she realized she had two choices: starve to death or become a prostitute. She chose to work at Ruby’s, a brothel.

She brought her attention back to the book. Wouldn’t it be marvelous to learn? To read books about distant places and exciting people and thrilling adventures, to be able to read aloud to children or silently to herself, to write letters or a story?

Oh, it sounded more wonderful than any fantasy…but that was all it was. Soon, very soon, the school board would find out she couldn’t read or write and nothing would save her. From what she’d seen, she didn’t believe Mr. Sullivan would be kind or forgiving when he found out about her deception.

“Excuse me,” came a sweet voice from outside as the door opened.

“Yes?” Annie turned to look down on a tiny, fairy-like creature with a heavy basket. Behind the child stood a Mexican man. She straightened and walked toward the little girl.

Light hair curled from beneath the hood of the child’s green plaid coat. She looked up at Annie with enormous, intelligent blue eyes and a smile that sparkled with humor.

“Good morning, Miss Cunningham. I’m Elizabeth Sullivan. This is Ramon Ortiz.”

The child struggled across the threshold, carrying an enormous basket. Annie would have taken it from her, but Mr. Ortiz caught her eye and shook his head, smiling.

Elizabeth dropped her burden by the door to the kitchen. “My father sent us with some things for you. He thought you might be hungry. And we brought you a blanket because the nights are cold.”

Annie hadn’t noticed the cold the night before because she’d been exhausted. How lovely to have a blanket. “Thank you.”

Mr. Ortiz followed Elizabeth and placed a bundle on one of the narrow tables.

“How old are you, Elizabeth?” Annie settled on a bench so she and Elizabeth would be face-to-face.

“I’m almost eight, Miss Cunningham.”

“What do you like most about school?”

“Reading. I love to read. And to write.”

Of course the daughter of the man who hired her would love to do the things Annie couldn’t. “Do you like to do sums?”

Elizabeth grimaced. “No, ma’am, but I will try. My father says women should be able to add and subtract.”

“Of course we should.” That was one thing she could do, thanks to keeping track of how much the men who frequented the brothel owed. That and her piano playing had made her popular with the other women there.

The little girl marched into Annie’s bedroom to spread the blanket on her bed, tugging on it to make sure it hung squarely. She stopped to brush a little dust from the dresser and pushed the outside door more firmly shut. The child acted with such grace and helpfulness, as if she were an adult, that Annie smiled.

“I asked Ramon to place the food in your cupboard.” Elizabeth frowned as she looked around the tiny bedroom. “I don’t know why you couldn’t have curtains or a pretty quilt.”

“Thank you, but please don’t worry about it, Elizabeth. This is the nicest room I’ve ever had.”

Elizabeth’s eyes grew round, but she was too polite to ask Annie how that could be. “My father and I hope you’ll enjoy Trail’s End. All the students are excited to meet you tomorrow. Most of us like school a great deal.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth. I look forward to meeting them.” Annie walked into the classroom. “Would you tell me something about each student?” She congratulated herself on sounding so much like a teacher—or at least like her concept of a teacher.

The child stopped to think a moment before she started counting off the students on her fingers. “There are the Sundholm twins, Bertha and Clara. They’re only six so just babies. This is their first year in school. Tommy Tripp and I are in the second grade. We can both read and are learning cursive. Do you have a nice hand, Miss Cunningham?”

Annie looked down at her fingers. They were long and thin but covered with calluses from hard work and cuts from the accident. Her palms were red and rough. Why had the child asked if she had a nice hand? And what was cursive? What did it have to do with her hands?

When Annie didn’t answer, Elizabeth continued, “Rose Tripp and Samuel Johnson and Frederick Meyer are in fourth grade. The Bryan brothers are all much older but still in the fifth reader because they miss a lot of school to help their father on the farm. There are three of them, but you won’t see much of Wilber because he’s almost sixteen and really strong. Martha Norton and Ida Johnson are in seventh grade. They know everything.” She stopped and thought, her head tilted. “I could make you a list if that would help.”

“I can tell you’ll be a great help to me.”

“Doña Elizabeth, I’ve finished putting the food away.” Mr. Ortiz came into the schoolroom, carrying the empty basket. His voice was soft and respectful with a lovely lilt to it.

“Thank you, Mr. Ortiz,” Annie said.

“I’m Ramon, Señorita Cunningham.” He bowed his head. “Mr. Sullivan said he told you in his letters that each family contributes a wagonload of wood once each term. They stack it in the shed behind the schoolhouse.” He nodded his head in that direction. “Mr. Sullivan sent me with a load so you’ll have some when you need it. And I put a small pile next to the stove.”

“Thank you, again.”

“The shed’s where students who ride put their saddles. They tie their horses on the rail outside it,” Elizabeth explained as she moved toward the door. “Please excuse me. My father expects me home right away.” She started out before she turned to say, “Oh, and we’ll bring you a loaf of bread every week from our cook.” She smiled. “I’m so excited about school tomorrow. It’s been a long time since we had a teacher.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth. See you tomorrow.”

When they left, Annie entered the kitchen, ravenous. On the table lay a can opener. She opened one cupboard to discover it filled with tins, dried meat and a loaf of bread. A lower cabinet held a sack of oatmeal and another of potatoes. In the other cabinet were two plates, three glasses, a cup, knife, fork and spoon plus some bowls. What luxury!

The crickets and dried fruit were gone.

She felt incredibly fortunate, blessed with an abundance of belongings and a feeling of freedom, even though she knew it would last only a short while—a few days at most.

For the first time in years, she possessed enough food to last for nearly a week. More, if she rationed it carefully.

She considered lighting the stove but doing it with only one arm would be difficult. Besides, she didn’t want to waste any more time when she had so much to learn. With a tug, she opened the drawer, took out a knife and sliced a piece of bread. She was about to take a bite when she remembered Matilda’s prayer at the coach stop. If she were to be Miss Matilda Cunningham, she should say grace, even though it didn’t come easily. “Thank You, Lord, for this food and for this place. Amen.” She nodded, pleased with her first effort.

Her meal finished, she pulled her desk over to the window and studied each book. Hours passed as she copied the letters from a primer. She had to use her left hand because her right was nearly useless. However, she covered the slate with crooked lines and uneven circles that improved as the afternoon advanced. She pressed hard on the pieces of soapstone, writing each letter again and again until the soapstone shattered and her hand cramped. After she finished copying all the letters over and over, she scrutinized them and wondered what she had written.

One of the books showed the letters attached together in a beautiful, flowing wave. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to make such lovely lines? Well, she wasn’t ready yet. She returned to her straight lines and circles, wondering how on earth she would get through her first day as a schoolteacher.

That evening as she fixed her dinner—her third meal in a row of bread and cold canned tomatoes—she heard a knock at the door. She looked down at her food. The knock came again, louder and more insistent.

“Miss Cunningham,” Mr. Sullivan shouted, and knocked again.

“Yes, sir.” She abandoned her meal and went to the door. There stood Mr. Sullivan and a beautiful young woman.

Annie had never seen anyone as lovely. She had golden curls that fell from a knot on the top of her head, her eyes were a deep blue and sparkled with fun and her smile showed dimples in both cheeks. She wore a blue robe that matched her eyes and, Annie could tell, was beautifully made and very expensive. She was someone’s pampered darling, Annie guessed.

“Good evening, Miss Cunningham.” He nodded as Annie motioned them in. “I came by in case you have questions before school begins.” He turned toward the young woman who was wandering through the classroom. “May I introduce you to Miss Hanson? She’s the daughter of our neighbor.”

The young woman turned and gave Annie such a warm smile that she couldn’t help but return it.

“Won’t you call me Amanda? I shall call you Matilda, and I believe we will be great friends! You must forgive our rudeness for dropping in on you unannounced.” Amanda took Annie’s hand. Annie hardly knew how to respond to the beautiful whirlwind. “I accompanied John because he’s very proper. I’m acting as his chaperone tonight.”

“Amanda, I don’t believe—” Mr. Sullivan started to protest.

“But I wanted to come,” Amanda continued. “I admire you so much. I’ve always believed education is important, but I’m afraid my poor brain is barely able to hold a single thought for any length of time.”

“Do not allow Amanda to mislead you.” He nodded as the beautiful young woman floated toward him and placed her hand on his arm. “She is an intelligent and sensible young woman.”

“Sensible? Oh, John, you certainly know better than that.” She patted his hand before turning toward Annie. “I truly do respect your education and your ability to work with children, Matilda. I wish I had some talent, any talent.”

“Oh, I feel sure—”

“Alas, I fear I’m but a useless butterfly.” Her sweet smile turned her statement into a shared joke. “But John said he needed to stop by here before we join my father for dinner. I will excuse myself so the two of you may discuss education and such.” Her curls bounced as she flitted toward the teacher’s desk.

“How are you feeling, Miss Cunningham?” Worry showed in his eyes. “I hope you’ve recovered from the accident.”

“Yes, thank you. I’m much better.” His sympathy warmed her a bit. “Although I fear I will not be able to write for a few days,” she said, glancing at her right arm.

“I’m sure the children will understand.” He cleared his throat and appeared slightly uncomfortable. Annie suddenly felt nervous. “Miss Cunningham, when we spoke upon your arrival, I felt that we may not have communicated well.”

“Oh?” What did that mean? Surely he couldn’t have found out what she’d done already, could he?

“When I found you at the hotel, you didn’t seem to remember much of the information I had sent you.”

“I am sorry I seemed confused. With the accident…” She motioned toward the bruise on her face.

“Of course, but I want to make sure you have no misunderstandings about the expectations of the school board. May I sit down?” He settled himself on a bench, leaning on the table before him. Annie had little choice but to sit with him, though it was the last thing she wanted to do. He pulled a paper from the leather case he carried.

“Do you remember all the requirements stated in your contract?” He handed it to her. “This is the agreement you signed last month.”

As he leaned forward she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek and smell the scent of bay rum cologne. She took a deep breath as an unknown and confusing emotion filled her.

She swallowed, closing her eyes in an effort to regain her balance. When she opened them, the gaze that met hers was icy cold and hard. Chiding herself for allowing her thoughts to roam, she took the sheet from his hand and looked at it. She recognized that there were different sections and a signature at the bottom. Feeling that Mr. Sullivan wouldn’t lie to her and having no recourse if he did, Annie nodded and handed the paper back.

“I would like to review the points with you, Mr. Sullivan. Would you read them one by one?” she asked. “So we can discuss them if necessary? Just to make sure I understand them all.”

He glanced at her, puzzled, but began to read. “The agreement says that you will receive the sum of thirty-two dollars per month and lodging during the school term.”

Thirty-two dollars a month! Oh, my, it’s a fortune! She could save it to live on when she had to leave, if she lasted a month. She could buy a ticket to another destination, she could buy a good dinner and…oh, she could buy shoes that fit!

He continued. “You will teach for six months per year for three years, with four holidays each year. If you wish,” he said, glancing up at her, as if gauging her understanding, “you may sponsor an extra term in the spring. When school is not in session, you may live in the building for the sum of three dollars a month if you clean the schoolhouse.”

“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.

To his surprise, he could see a light coming from the schoolhouse. It had to be long after midnight—why would Matilda still have the lamp on? What could she being doing up so late? Working? She’d told him she wanted to prepare well.

But even knowing that she spent extra time in preparation didn’t calm his concern about her. Several times over the past few days she’d seemed puzzled and uncertain when he talked to her. Had she been injured more seriously than he’d thought? Was she sick? Or had the people who’d written her references exaggerated her competency?

She’d blamed her confusion on the accident. What a terrible ordeal she’d gone through. After the death of her only relative, she’d set off to an unknown future only to suffer an awful accident and watch another person die. In addition, he’d seen the bump and bruises on her forehead, the cuts on her hands and the blood on her clothes from the wounds.

Yes, a most unfortunate incident, but that changed nothing. He was still responsible for the education of the Trail’s End children. That was the Sullivan way. Whether her actions were due to the accident or mistakes or illness made no difference—if she wasn’t teaching well, he’d have to take action. He’d keep an eye on her to assure himself that his daughter and the other children received a proper education.

Keeping an eye on her would not be a burden, given how pretty she was.

As he watched, the light in the schoolhouse moved from the schoolroom toward the room in the back. Then it was extinguished.

With a yawn, he returned to his bed and pulled the covers up. This time, he slept.

Saturday morning, after surviving three days as a teacher, Annie woke up early. She stretched and discovered she had fewer aches. She checked the wound on her arm and found it was healing quite well.

She felt much better. Although she’d slept only a few hours, she was ready to get up and get back to work, to start learning more. At least until she looked out the window.

The sun had barely begun to rise. The morning appeared only as a fiery glow across the horizon, just beginning to sketch pink rays across the dark sky. This was too beautiful a morning to spend at her desk. For a few hours, she’d reward herself for all the time she’d spent at work. She’d take a walk and enjoy the birds and the sun and whatever else she found. After washing and dressing quickly, she forced her feet into her shoes and raced to the door and outside.

Which way should she go? Straight ahead lay the Sullivan ranch, and she didn’t feel comfortable heading that way. She might look as if she assumed a friendship that didn’t exist, and she certainly didn’t want to trespass on their privacy. Behind her lay the road and, on the other side, another ranch. To her left and right lay land that probably belonged to the Sullivans but surely they wouldn’t mind if she explored a bit on the acres farther from their home. She’d walk toward the sun and enjoy the marvels revealed in its expanding light.

As more birds joined the morning chorus, she was surrounded by music. She followed a faint path—barely a trace, really—with tall prairie grass on each side. What might be hiding in there? Mice? Possibly snakes, but this morning she didn’t care. She merely wanted to revel in the daylight, to feel the cool air on her face and the sun on her cheeks, to experience the solid crunch of the ground beneath her feet.

She moved through a thicket, dodging the branches that attempted to snag her skirt, touching the rough bark of the trees and noting the bare branches. She knew the sunlight would color her face, but that didn’t matter. Real ladies would protect their complexions by wearing bonnets or never coming outside in the sunshine, but she’d always loved her walks, even as a sad child and, later, as a woman escaping the heat and terror of the brothel for a few minutes. She held out her arms to feel the joy around her, to draw it in and allow it to warm those cold places inside.

Once through the grove, she found a very inviting tree stump, seemingly placed there just for her. She sat on it and breathed in the beauty surrounding her.

Within moments, she heard hoofbeats coming hard and fast. Her first reaction was to leap to her feet and hide in the trees, but the rider came into view before she could move. He didn’t seem to notice her. He rode with such joy, such abandon, as if this were what he’d been created to do. He and the horse moved together, a picture of effortless perfection and absolute happiness.

The rider wore no hat, his short dark hair blowing a bit. She could hear the sound of deep laughter, and she almost laughed herself, enjoying the sight of this man and his horse, the pure splendor of the two together with the sunlight behind them. A shiver of delight filled her.

Her slight movement alerted the rider that he wasn’t alone. He turned the horse and pulled it to a stop, facing her from nearly fifty yards away. Who was he? Putting her hand above her eyes to fight the glare, she still couldn’t see his face. He snapped the reins and moved toward her.

Why was she sitting out here alone with an unknown man closing in? Immediately instinct took over. She leaped to her feet and ran toward the trees.

“Matilda?”

The voice belonged to John Sullivan. She stopped and turned, her heart pounding. He galloped up to her, and she realized that he looked like a completely different man out here at dawn, riding as if nothing else existed in the world.

“Hello. You’re up early this morning.” When he reached her, he dismounted with a fluid motion and smiled.

He wore denim trousers, scuffed boots and plaid shirt, which was quite a contrast to his usual attire. She sensed an ease she hadn’t noticed when he wore his proper suit and polished shoes. He was, without a doubt, the handsomest man she’d ever seen. But, of course, handsome men could be the meanest, the roughest and most demanding—

She stopped her train of thought. John was not a customer, and she was no longer in a brothel. She studied his face, his usually stern features softer somehow, more open.

“I like to walk in the morning. And I love to be outdoors,” she explained.

Holding the reins of his horse with one hand, he nodded his head. “I do, too. I don’t get out nearly as much as I’d like.”

“Why don’t you spend more time riding?”

“I’m the town banker. Telling my depositors that I’d rather be with Orion—” he rubbed the horse’s nose with one hand “—they’re not going to be happy with me.”

With a sliver of a smile that charmed Annie against her will, he added, “That’s why I get up early and ride for an hour. The pleasure lasts me all day.”

“It looks so easy for you. When did you start riding?”

“Since I could stay on a saddle. Anyone who lives on a ranch has to.” After a moment he said, “If I remember correctly, you ride also.”

Annie gulped and wished she could read the letters Matilda had written so she’d at least know what she should be able to do. “Oh, no. I hardly—”

“Surely you’re too modest. You listed some competitions you’d participated in.”

Before she could reply, the rising sun caught his eye, and he glanced up before turning away to put his foot in the stirrup. “Excuse me. It’s time for me to go home for breakfast with Elizabeth. She expects me to be on time.”

He mounted, then looked down at her. For a moment, his gaze met hers and stayed there. Again, that trace of a smile emerged and delighted her, making her want to smile back, although she could not interpret the meaning hidden in his expression.

After a few seconds, she realized who and where she was and lowered her eyes to break their connection.

“Matilda, if you will excuse me?” He nodded at her and turned his horse, riding back down into the valley.

As soon as he was gone, she felt a little cooler in the morning breeze. Well, if that wasn’t absolutely ridiculous. She shook her head and reminded herself she was the schoolteacher, not a foolish ninny. John was the banker, the member of the school board who supervised her, and the father of one of her students. If she were to let her barriers down, if she could truly believe that a man wouldn’t hurt her—if, if, if. That would never happen. She couldn’t allow it.

Nonetheless, she’d watched him ride toward his ranch until he’d disappeared into the trees. Still she stood there, long after he’d disappeared, stunned at how glorious the sight of him had been.

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