Engaging the Competition (5 page)

“It's not like you can see anything.”

With a wild swipe, he captured her wrist. “That's where you're wrong. My myopia gives me about two inches of clear vision if I hold something in just the right place.” He tugged her up to stand and pulled her hand closer to his nose. “And it just so happens that clear swath is somewhat magnified. I assume you're the kind of woman to carry a pocketknife?”

She pulled out her knife and handed it to him. For some
reason he grinned. She held her breath, realizing how very close she was to him.

He flipped open her knife, and his face screwed up in concentration. “You're also not the kind of woman who'd shriek or tug away from me like my mother does, right?”

“Of course not.” She'd rather die than embarrass herself that way. But anticipating pain wasn't what was sending her heart to throbbing—rather it was being close enough to see the individual hairs darkening his jawline. Her heart had never flipped like this for a man before.

She'd evidently not outgrown her schoolgirl infatuation with the handsomest boy in class, but now that they were older, the feelings were quite different.

Harrison gently squeezed the flesh of her hand. She squirmed—not because he scraped the knife against her skin but rather because his breath tickled her wrist.

“Done.” He ran his thumb across the scratch on her palm and smiled. “Splinter removal—a talent in which you can never outdo me.”

“I thought you told me gloating wasn't a good thing.” Why rub such a silly skill in her face anyway?

“I was kidding.”

Sure he was. “Being talented at splinter removal isn't worth being blind as a newborn pup and unable to shoot worth a nickel.”

His smile disappeared until his jaw clenched. Then he dropped her hand and stalked away.

“Sorry.”

Harrison ran into a desk and muttered under his breath.

“Seems we are a lot alike, as you said.” Though maybe gloating wasn't really her downfall, rather speaking without thinking. She hadn't meant to shove his weakness in his face.

If she couldn't stop competing and ridiculing his weaknesses, they'd part as enemies instead of becoming the kind of friends Lydia and Beatrice were.

Then again, remaining enemies might be a good thing. One did not pine for one's enemy.

“Momma?” Charlie placed a warm coffee mug next to the plate of pancakes her mother had barely touched.

Momma popped out of the pantry with two jars. “Where's the strawberry preserves?”

Charlie closed her eyes and stifled a sigh. Tell her the truth and deal with the consequences or deflect her question? She was already running late. Harrison was giving quizzes today and wanted her to keep an eye out for cheating. “I can get some in town this afternoon.”

“Good, because all I can find is blackberry and plum. Your father won't touch either.”

Worrying about preserves for her deceased father didn't make sense, but she wasn't about to question Momma. “Don't worry. Daddy'll be fine without them, but I've got to leave. So why don't you finish your breakfast before it gets cold?”

Momma's brow furrowed with a narrow-eyed glare. “Why are you talking to me as if I'm a child?”

“Sorry, Momma.” Some days patronizing was necessary to get her to function. Obviously today was not one of them.

A clopping outside compelled Charlie to the window.

August was stomping across her porch. A small herd of cattle and two of his ranch hands milled about near the east paddock.

She groaned. Just what she needed to deal with right now. He'd agreed to wait another week to wed, but evidently he didn't want to wait on taking advantage of her land. Opening the door, she put on a smile she didn't feel. “Good morning, August.”

“So this is August.” Her mother came up behind her.

“Yes.” She opened the door wider to let him in.

His big form almost required him to shuffle sideways to get through the door. He took off his hat and mumbled a hello.

“Your father approves of him?” Momma whispered too loudly for August to have missed the question.

Why did he have to come on a day her mother's mind was far from right? “Daddy
would have
, I'm sure.” Or would have if he knew she was doing this to keep her mother halfway sane. She'd been Daddy's girl, but Momma was his first love. He'd be heartbroken to see how she was dealing with his loss.

Charlie glanced at August, but he didn't seem concerned about Momma's choice of words. Mother's friend Marie had said most people just figured Momma forgot to change her verb tense when speaking of her late husband—whatever that meant—but August would soon figure out the truth.

Would August be gentle with Momma once he realized she lived in the year 1900, perhaps permanently? Or would he make things worse?

“You don't mind if I put cattle in your pasture, right?”

The fact that he was asking instead of telling was a good sign. “No, go ahead.”

He spun his hat in his hands. “I could use your help since I couldn't ask Royal, considering learning about us would get his dander up. And since we're not quite married yet, not sure if he'd try something to change your mind.”

“Of course.” She glanced at the clock. Harrison was smart enough to figure out a way to manage without her. And even if he needed help, his students adored him. Though she'd been embarrassed years ago to be in his class, since she was older, she never regretted asking him for help. He'd always explained things better than the teacher, and he had been patient, attentive, warm, and caring. Just as he was now when he wasn't sparring with her.

August stood appraising the front room with a critical eye, and then he looked at her. No smile, just a cool assessment before he headed back outside.

Though August seemed willing to help and had never pushed her around, he didn't have a personality that drew a person. She'd been avoiding thinking of what marrying him would entail since her reasons were not romantic. But he wasn't going to consider this arrangement as strictly a business deal. She rubbed her arms at the thought of the wedding night. It couldn't be that bad, could it?

August was a man's man—a rancher, toned and rugged. That kind of man, she'd figured, would be the only type to marry a woman like her—she'd need a man who worked hard and who needed a woman to work harder.

But what if what she really needed was the opposite—someone who'd smooth her hard edges, not callus them up? She might get to keep the house by marrying August, but if he had no feelings for her or felt no compassion for Momma, would she end up hating herself for marrying him?

She grabbed her coat and hat and sat to put on her boots, watching Momma wring her hands as she stared at the men outside the window.

Lord, please help Momma recover her mind and become the woman I once knew. Even when I
disappointed her with my unrefined ways, she still loved me, and I feel I owe her.

“Momma?”

“Hmmm?” Her mother turned on her way back to the kitchen. Hopefully she'd finish her breakfast without getting distracted over Daddy's preserves again.

“What if Daddy sold the house? Would you be all right with that?”

Momma shook her head. “Your daddy won't ever sell the house. He'd die first.”

Charlie clenched her fingernails into the palms of her hands to refrain from informing her of the truth she repressed. “What if we really needed the money? Would you be all right if we sold it then?”

“Daddy spent years building this house for me.” She ran her hand down the doorframe and smiled at the big stone hearth she loved to decorate at Christmas beside the bay window where she placed her freshly cut daffodils every spring. “I'd die before I let him sell it.”

Charlie closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. If she sold the place, Momma might truly die—perhaps not physically, but the house where Daddy had touched the things she touched was likely the only thing keeping her partially sane. She had to save it for her. If it wasn't for Harrison and his fool glasses, she'd not be hesitating.

She squared her shoulders and went to help August herd his cattle onto the property that would soon be his.

Harrison squinted at his blurry students in front of his desk as they piled their quizzes on the corner. Someone came up behind him but said nothing. “Miss Andrews, you're late.”

“How'd you know it was me?” Her voice was unusually breathless.

“Just because I can't see you doesn't mean I can't smell you.”

“What!”

He could just imagine what she looked like now. He glanced over his shoulder, and indeed, her hands had found her hips. “You smell like horse and whatever salve you use on your animals.”

“I can't believe you just said that loud enough for the students to hear.”

He chuckled. “They know what you smell like too, whether or not I say it aloud.” He turned and put a hand on her shoulder and lowered his voice. “Smelling like you do isn't a bad thing, not if we like you.”

“And do you like me?”

His cheek twitched. “Of course.”

“When did that happen?”

He cleared his throat. “I . . . I've always liked you.”

Her posture didn't change, and he could feel her scrutiny.

His face grew warmer at the thought of how much he'd actually liked her as a young man. Over the last few days, he'd come to realize the only reason he'd gotten so mad at her seven years ago was because he'd liked her a lot, and that's why she'd been able to hurt him so badly.

“You certainly have a funny way of showing it.”

Yes, indeed. The scraping of chairs against the floor ceased,
and he cleared his throat. He dropped his hand and turned to face his hazy students. “Time to start the next section—the American short story. Open to page sixty-five, please.” At the sound of twenty-four students flipping pages, he picked up his Basic English class's text and handed it to Charlie. “Here's my book if you want to read along.”

“Are you going to force them all to read aloud again?”

Force them? “They're in high school. They read fine.” Did she expect him to read aloud for them when he had to shove his nose against the page to see maybe three words in focus? “All right, class. James, let's start with you.”

Charlie crossed in front of him. “Let's have everyone stand when it's your turn to read, all right?”

The room grew quiet. Was it because of her unusual command, or were they waiting for him to second or naysay her?

He wouldn't contradict her in front of them, but they'd have to have a talk. This wasn't the first time she'd given his students directions, but it was the first time she'd done so without consulting him first. Did she think she'd figured out how to teach better than him?

“James?” He gestured for him to stand, and the boy's chair scraped as he stood.

After several students read, Charlie came closer, and he couldn't suppress the shiver that stole over him when a strand of her hair tickled his cheek. “It's a minute 'til,” she whispered.

At the end of Forest's paragraph, he cleared his throat. “Thank you, Forest. Seems time got away from me. We'll continue tomorrow, no homework.”

The sound of happy muttering, shutting books, and shuffling feet followed.

He held up a hand. “Class dismissed. Have a good lunch.”

After the last student filed out, Harrison turned to find Charlie fiddling with some papers. “Why'd you tell them to stand to read?” He picked up a stack of pencils and sat down in front of the large pencil sharpener bolted to the edge of his desk.

“Because of George.” Her hand went up to indicate the right side of the room, where the young man sat. “He doesn't read well.”

Harrison chose a pencil, brought it up to his face to make sure he had the tip, and leaned down to find the hole to insert it into the sharpener. “He's improving.”

“Not enough if he wants a good grade, considering his quizzes.”

“So why have him stand up?” Harrison started cranking.

She shrugged. “I remembered that when I pleased the teachers by being quiet, I didn't learn much that day. Sitting still took all my energy, my brain couldn't handle anything more than keeping my foot from tapping and my backside in one spot. I figured George might improve if he could move around some but wouldn't appreciate being singled out. I doubted you'd be happy if I told the students to walk around the room or something.”

He had to admit, he never would have thought of that. He pulled out the pencil and blew off the shavings. The lead was broken. He reinserted the pencil. “I do remember you having a hard time sitting still.” He checked the pencil again. Still broken. “What else would you suggest to help?”

“You're asking me?” At his nod, she shrugged. She walked toward him and watched him work the sharpener. “I never did get smarter even when I moved around, so maybe some of us just can't learn well.”

He frowned at his broken lead again. Maybe he couldn't see that he was inserting it wrong, or maybe it was just a bad batch of pencils.

“Give me that.” She held out her hand.

He tightened his grip. “You think you can sharpen better than me? All you do is crank.” Why did the woman have to try to show him up on everything?

“I'm just trying to help.” She tugged the pencil from his grasp, and the glint of her pocket blade flashed beside him a couple times.

She sounded genuine enough, so why was she rubbing him wrong? Maybe it was because he couldn't see her.

“There.” She handed him back the pencil.

He held it two inches from his nose. “That's the ugliest sharpening job I've ever seen. The sharpener makes it smooth and uniform and sharpens the lead as well.”

“But that machine rattles so much it breaks the lead. Whittling doesn't waste half a pencil.” She picked up another.

Huffing, he stuck in the next one and whirred the machine fast enough to match Charlie's harried pace. Then his sharpener jammed.

“Ha!” She picked up the last one and was done with it before he got the milling disks unstuck. “See, sometimes a person with no book smarts can be useful.”

“You just always have to win, don't you.” He forced himself not to run her asymmetrical pencils through the sharpener lest she think he couldn't
appreciate
her help.

“I wasn't trying to win. I was just . . . Never mind, maybe I was.” She rounded his desk and dropped the pile of crudely sharpened pencils into the drawer. “Are you going to quit talking to me again, like you did after the Sunday school party?”

If only that day had never occurred, where might they be now? “I didn't stop talking to you because you shot better than me—we all knew you could probably shoot better than us—but I wasn't too keen on hanging around you after you purposely embarrassed me in front of the boys.”

“I did not.”

All right. Embarrassing him was one thing, denying doing so was another. He'd forgiven her for it, but . . . He stood and leaned heavily on his desk. “What do you call picking up my gun as soon as I finished shooting and knocking down every target I missed?”