Sycamore Hill (22 page)

Reva’s explanation was reasonable, but it only emphasized the
lonely barrenness of my life stretching before me. It was fine to dedicate
one’s life to children, but what about when I grew too old to teach? Would I
then be like Ellen Greer? Nothing to show for my life but a couple of plaques
on a wall, some fond memories and a lonely room at the back of some charitable
person’s boardinghouse?

I was no different from any other woman. I dreamed of a family of
my own, a man I could love, and children I would bear for him out of our love.
Perhaps it was even more important to me, because I had no family at all, and
the vague memories of security and love were so distant, they only tantalized
me. Loneliness, I told myself often, is a state of mind that can be controlled.
But at night, alone in my darkened room with no company but a cat, it was not
so easy to rationalize.

The children were becoming more and more my life. Through them I
had a purpose. Through them I was able to touch another life, if only for a
brief time. My existence would not be completely wasted. Had the Haversalls
lived, I knew without doubt that I would have gone on as I had, working for
nothing and receiving less than that in return. Yet, now, that time seemed a
lifetime away. I did not want to remember them, and pushed my memories away.

“Of course, that does not mean that a virtuous woman like you
cannot burn with desire if the right man touches you,” Reva continued, giving
me a sidelong glance. “Do you bum for anyone,
señorita?”
She was smiling
as though she knew something I did not.

“I should say not,” I retorted, unable to prevent a picture of
Jordan from forming in my mind.

Reva laughed. “How very red you can get,
señorita.
You
embarrass too easily. I was only teasing you.” She considered me for a long
moment then, and a speculative gleam changed her dark eyes. “Jordan said you
have met Ross Persall. He is very handsome, no?”

“Yes, he is,” I admitted, wondering if she was about to give me
another warning about that man.

“Ross knows how to treat a woman. He makes her feel desirable.
Women like him very much. Do you like him?”

“I suppose I do,” I said, wondering why she should wish to know.

“Ross is very knowledgeable about women—especially those who are
lonely and frustrated.” Her words were meant to be significant, and I could
hardly pretend that I did not understand.

“I’ve already been warned against the man by half the township,” I
told her dryly.

“Jordan as well?”

“Especially by him, though I can’t think why he felt it necessary
to say anything. Mr. Persall merely made some repairs to the front steps of the
schoolhouse after Mr. Olmstead informed me he had no time for such duties.”

Reva stared at me and then laughed as though at some great joke.
Before I could ask her to explain her mirth, Diego entered the room, having
finished his test. And for the next few hours we worked together over his
lessons. I forgot about the last part of my conversation with Reva Gutierrez.
Later, I would understand only too well what she meant about Ross Persall and
lonely, frustrated women.

Following Sunday School, cleaning chores in the schoolroom and
lesson planning for the next day, I finally was able to relax and enjoy my stew
and warm-bread dinner with Orphan as my companion. I shared my stores with her,
and she expounded her gratitude with throaty purrs. She was getting fat, I
thought with a smile, remembering the skinny stray kitten she had been when I
found her perched on the windowsill. I reached down and scratched her ears
affectionately before leaving my room to make my customary evening trips to the
well for water.

I was too exhausted to make the ten trips necessary to fill the
old metal tub, nor did I feel I could stay awake long enough to heat the water
on the wood stove. So I contented myself with one bucket of warm water, just
enough for a sponge bath and rinse. One of the luxuries I longed for was a
pleasant soak to completely relax my tired muscles. I lathered my hair and then
poured the bucket of water over me slowly to rinse away all the soap.

Wrapping myself in one towel, I used another to rub my hair dry.
Then I sat brushing it until the thick auburn tresses glistened. My hair was
naturally curly, and it floated about my shoulders and back in wild disarray.
But it felt good to have it free of its usual confining bun.

Checking my timepiece, I saw that it was later than I had thought.
I wanted to go to the cemetery and see the
El Día de los Muertos
procession. Reva had told me that tonight would be the finale of the
celebration. Families would walk to the churchyard carrying candles and gifts
of food and flowers for deceased loved ones. There would be traditional songs
and games for the children.

Though I was not part of the group, I wanted to watch the
festivities from the hillside beyond the graveyard. I could sit beneath the
sycamores and keep myself warm with my shawl.

So I donned my clothes hurriedly, leaving my hair free for lack of
time, as well as a certain defiance I did not want to admit to feeling. I could
go around the back way, over the hills, so that no one would see me. I felt
reckless and happy.

Skipping down the back steps and hopping over the last two that
were still in bad repair, I started out. It was growing dark quickly, and
already the air was chilly. I lifted the edge of my skirt and ran along,
feeling free and deliciously wicked. My work was done for the moment, but it
would start again at dawn tomorrow. For now, just for a few hours, I was not
going to think of anything but the beautiful evening, the clear darkening sky
and brilliant scattering of stars, the full moon and the festivities that I
would at least be able to view from a distance.

As I ran on, I could see the light-filled windows of homes on the
hem of town. Smoke curled up from chimneys as dinners were being prepared, and
houses warmed against the cool autumn evening. There was the faintest whispering
of wind about me, and now and then I could hear the throaty croak of a bullfrog
among the cacophony of crickets.

Ahead of me was the hillside cemetery, with the sycamore grove
beyond. The procession had already started and was moving into the churchyard.
I ran faster, hitching my skirts up until they were about my calves. I had
neglected to put on my shoes, and my slippers were thin, just barely enough to
protect my soles. I cared nothing about the picture I made with my bare legs
showing and my hair winging wildly behind me. There was no one around to care
that the dignified, spinster teacher was racing like a hoyden across a field to
peek secretly at a celebration.

When I reached the grove, I was winded and had to hold my ribs
against the painful stitch in my side. Laughing faintly at my ridiculous
behavior, I sank to the ground, which was littered with fallen leaves. More
floated down about me as the twigs shuddered against the evening breeze. I drew
a deep breath, smelling the damp earth and grass.

Drawing up my knees, I wrapped my shawl-covered arms around them.
I craned my neck to see the participants of the procession, but I could not
pick out Reva or Diego among the gaily dressed celebrants. The flickering
candles added a mystic air to the scene below in the graveyard. People wove
their way among the headstones toward the Catholic section. They were singing,
but I did not understand the Spanish lyrics, though I thought the melody was
beautiful. I closed my eyes and listened with pleasure to the harmonic blending
of old and young voices.

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw you,” came a deep voice beside
me, and I jumped with fright. Wide-eyed, I stared up the long length of Ross
Persall standing above me. He was grinning broadly as I came hastily to my feet,
brushing down my skirts as I did so. I felt foolish, caught in some childish
display of mischief, and guilty of the worst sort of indiscretion.

“Don’t look so aghast. I won’t tell anyone,” he assured me,
laughing slightly. I stopped my frantic tidying and looked up at him again. His
hair was not as neat as usual; it lay forward boyishly. His dark eyes were
sparkling with amusement, but there was none of the mockery I always expected
from Jordan Bennett.

I relaxed slightly and smiled back at him. “Where were you, Mr.
Persall? I didn’t see you when I came up here.”

“You were in too much of a hurry to be looking around.” He
grinned. “I had some business at this end of town. I saw the procession and
decided to watch for a few minutes. Then I saw a wood nymph racing up the
hillside, disappearing in the darkness beneath the trees. I thought I
recognized the rather shapely form of our usually dignified teacher, but I had
to come investigate to be sure.” He was laughing at me, but not in a way as to
be offensive.

“And now you know it was.” I pretended remorse.

“A not unpleasant surprise.”

“I wanted to see the celebration,” I explained, indicating the
people below. “And when I saw they had already started, I hurried.”

“Don’t explain yourself. Why don’t we just sit down and enjoy the
festivities together,” he suggested. I remembered James Olmstead’s iron rule of
avoiding meetings just such as this. Ross Persall seemed to know my thoughts,
and his fine shapely mouth curved into a knowing, mocking smile. “There was no
one else around to see you or me. So you won’t get into trouble for sharing a
couple of minutes with me,” he said, and his brows rose, giving me a slight
challenge.

“I think I will,” I decided and sat down again, curling my legs
beneath me in a more ladylike position. He stretched out beside me.

“Don’t you ever get tired of all the one-sided rules you’re
expected to follow?” he asked, his eyes sliding down over me and then up again
to meet mine.

“Sometimes,” I admitted, his perusal not unnerving me the way
Jordan’s always did. “For example, I see no reason why I can’t sit here with
you. I enjoy conversing with people.”

“The concern isn’t about conversing, Miss McFarland, but about
what comes after it.” He grinned, and I could see what Reva had meant about his
effect on women.

“What you’re implying need not follow,” I told him primly.

“But a man will always try when the woman is as attractive as
you,” he said, undaunted.

“Shall I take that as a fair warning, Mr. Persall?”

“You can trust me completely, Miss McFarland. I’m not the rogue
everyone says. I can be a gentleman if the woman warrants it and the stakes are
high enough.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just that you don’t seem the type of woman who would enjoy being
trifled with.”

“I think that’s true of most women.”

He gave me a considering look and then smiled. “Not in my
experience. Most of the women I’ve known enjoy trifling.”

“I think you’re deliberately trying to shock me. And just after
you told me that you were trustworthy and not the rogue you’re reputed to be,”
I scolded teasingly.

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.” He grinned again.

“Then I’ll take your first warning and run,” I suggested,
pretending to rise. He reached out and closed his hand over mine. His fingers
were strong and warm.

“No... at least not yet. I’ve given you no reason.”

“Yet.”
I laughed. I looked down at him lying on his side in the grass,
his hand moving to hold mine. There was a certain sensual quality about him
that made me feel quite out of my depth.

“I do believe you are trifling with me, Mr. Persall,” I chastened
him, drawing my hand away. “Perhaps I should believe all I’ve heard.”

“And what have you heard?”

“Nothing, I’m sure, that would surprise you.”

“Tell me,” he kindly ordered.

“That you’re charming. That you like women, and they like you.”

“Do you like me?”

“I’m a woman, aren’t I?” I laughed.

“Who’s trifling with whom, Miss McFarland,” he said with an upward
tilt of his mouth.

“We’re missing the procession,” I reminded him.

“Forget the procession. I’d rather talk.”

“I came up here to watch the procession.”

“You wound my pride,” he sighed. "My company should be more
interesting than watching a bunch of Mexicans putting leftovers on graves.”

I stared at him, disliking his tone and use of words. “What a
dreadful way to put it! They prepare special gifts of food that were favored by
their deceased relatives and friends. Their offerings are meant as an assertion
of faith!”

“Where did you learn so much about it?” he asked, not the least
bit put off by my annoyance, and effectively turning it away.

“Reva Gutierrez told me—”

“Reva? Reva never leaves Eden Rock, at least not since Gwendolyn
Bennett told the town about Diego’s relationship to Jordan. Reva used to come
in quite a lot before that.”

“Yes, I heard about that. Did you know Gwendolyn Bennett?”

Ross did not answer for a moment. “Slightly,” he said finally, and
there was a look in his eyes I could not fathom. “You’ve learned a lot in your
short time in town, haven’t you?”