me?”
“You mean it?”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Tory.”
“Okay. Here’s something else I learned. I tried to sound out this word, but Miss Bush had to help me. I’m not dumb though,” he said defensively, “just because I couldn’t sound the word. See the book says those technical words are hard but that’s what studying botany will teach me. The book”—he said the word like it was the Holy Bible, which to Tory it was— “The book knows the words are hard.” He raised his chin, the words coming out mechanically, “Morphology is the shape of plants. Do you understand that, Jesse?”
“Well, I’m not sure I do. Could you explain?” It was all Jesse could do not to reach out and hug the budding botanist.
“Sure. It’s the form a plant takes. How it looks. I have to know that so I can identify plants. I can draw them, but I have to recognize the form so I can put a name to them.”
“Makes sense. You’ve picked something hard to learn, Tory. Lots harder than ranching.”
“Naw.”
But Jesse could see Tory was only trying to make him feel better. And he loved him for it.
Chapter 18
The weeks rolled by. Rose felt like she was sleepwalking through the days, waiting for the next perceived infraction that would bring about the school board’s wrath. It was only a matter of time.
Recalling an incident that had happened last Friday, she her lips twitch in a very un-teacher like smile. And if there was a teensy bit of delight in her student’s ingenuity, that wasn’t wrong, was it?
Art and his group of cohorts, Timmy included, had locked Willy in the outhouse. The hot, smelly outhouse. They denied any knowledge of the deed, and by the time Rose had realized Willy hadn’t returned from lunch recess, he’d been a guest of the wooden structure, with the tin roof that captured the sun’s rays, for over an hour.
Rose questioned the class, asking if anyone knew Willy’s whereabouts, but not one eye met hers. It was amazing how engrossed in slates and books they had all become. Willy was no one’s favorite.
Rushing out the schoolhouse door, frantic in imagining all sorts of perils, she scanned the playgrounds. Alerted by knocks and a feeble voice coming from behind the wedged door, Rose rushed to his rescue. The red-faced boy that toppled out smelled to high-heavens. Not waiting for permission, he bolted for home. And every minute since then she’d felt like a convicted person must feel looking out the jailhouse window and seeing the gallows being built.
But today, she was looking forward to a visit from Wisteria and Robin. She would put her fears aside. It was Saturday and they had decided to spend the day crocheting a rag rug. Wisteria had scoured the church’s missionary barrel and had found several torn and unwearable dresses as well as some tattered men’s shirts. They were unsuitable to send to missionaries, but perfect for what she and Rose had in mind.
“Come in,” Rose called out to the knock on the kitchen door. “You don’t need to knock, Wisteria.”
The door opened, but it wasn’t Wisteria that entered.
“Mr. Rivers.” Rose hoped he didn’t hear the breathless quality of her voice.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t. I was just expecting someone else.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Wisteria. She and I are going to crochet a rug. She’s gathering material now.” Rose was aware she was rambling. Jesse Rivers wasn’t interested in crocheting rugs. He must think her a dithering — what? — old-maid teacher?
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Anxious to have something to do, Rose gripped the pot, turning toward the man.
“No, thanks. Been up since dawn. Musta drank a pot by now.” Damn, but she was pretty. The flush on her cheeks made her skin look like porcelain.
Now it was his turn to be rattled. He’d had no intention to stop by the school when he’d come into town to pick up supplies. No intention at all. But it must have
“You mean it?”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Tory.”
“Okay. Here’s something else I learned. I tried to sound out this word, but Miss Bush had to help me. I’m not dumb though,” he said defensively, “just because I couldn’t sound the word. See the book says those technical words are hard but that’s what studying botany will teach me. The book”—he said the word like it was the Holy Bible, which to Tory it was— “The book knows the words are hard.” He raised his chin, the words coming out mechanically, “Morphology is the shape of plants. Do you understand that, Jesse?”
“Well, I’m not sure I do. Could you explain?” It was all Jesse could do not to reach out and hug the budding botanist.
“Sure. It’s the form a plant takes. How it looks. I have to know that so I can identify plants. I can draw them, but I have to recognize the form so I can put a name to them.”
“Makes sense. You’ve picked something hard to learn, Tory. Lots harder than ranching.”
“Naw.”
But Jesse could see Tory was only trying to make him feel better. And he loved him for it.
Chapter 18
The weeks rolled by. Rose felt like she was sleepwalking through the days, waiting for the next perceived infraction that would bring about the school board’s wrath. It was only a matter of time.
Recalling an incident that had happened last Friday, she her lips twitch in a very un-teacher like smile. And if there was a teensy bit of delight in her student’s ingenuity, that wasn’t wrong, was it?
Art and his group of cohorts, Timmy included, had locked Willy in the outhouse. The hot, smelly outhouse. They denied any knowledge of the deed, and by the time Rose had realized Willy hadn’t returned from lunch recess, he’d been a guest of the wooden structure, with the tin roof that captured the sun’s rays, for over an hour.
Rose questioned the class, asking if anyone knew Willy’s whereabouts, but not one eye met hers. It was amazing how engrossed in slates and books they had all become. Willy was no one’s favorite.
Rushing out the schoolhouse door, frantic in imagining all sorts of perils, she scanned the playgrounds. Alerted by knocks and a feeble voice coming from behind the wedged door, Rose rushed to his rescue. The red-faced boy that toppled out smelled to high-heavens. Not waiting for permission, he bolted for home. And every minute since then she’d felt like a convicted person must feel looking out the jailhouse window and seeing the gallows being built.
But today, she was looking forward to a visit from Wisteria and Robin. She would put her fears aside. It was Saturday and they had decided to spend the day crocheting a rag rug. Wisteria had scoured the church’s missionary barrel and had found several torn and unwearable dresses as well as some tattered men’s shirts. They were unsuitable to send to missionaries, but perfect for what she and Rose had in mind.
“Come in,” Rose called out to the knock on the kitchen door. “You don’t need to knock, Wisteria.”
The door opened, but it wasn’t Wisteria that entered.
“Mr. Rivers.” Rose hoped he didn’t hear the breathless quality of her voice.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t. I was just expecting someone else.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Wisteria. She and I are going to crochet a rug. She’s gathering material now.” Rose was aware she was rambling. Jesse Rivers wasn’t interested in crocheting rugs. He must think her a dithering — what? — old-maid teacher?
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Anxious to have something to do, Rose gripped the pot, turning toward the man.
“No, thanks. Been up since dawn. Musta drank a pot by now.” Damn, but she was pretty. The flush on her cheeks made her skin look like porcelain.
Now it was his turn to be rattled. He’d had no intention to stop by the school when he’d come into town to pick up supplies. No intention at all. But it must have
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