The Jeweled Spur (9 page)

“Thanks for bucking me up, Maxine,” Laurie smiled. “I needed someone to give me the spurs.”

“Anytime you want somebody to peel your potato, kid, just give me a call!” Maxine moved to open the door, and as soon as Mrs. Reynolds entered and began her speech about smoking, she pointed at Laurie, saying anxiously, “I
told
her it was against the rules, Mrs. Reynolds, but you know how these wild west girls are!” As Mrs. Reynolds turned to lecture Laurie, Maxine winked broadly over her shoulder and carefully dropped the tobacco sack behind a chair. Laurie never said a word and silently endured the matron’s warning about breaking school rules.

After Mrs. Reynolds left, the two girls fell into a fit of giggling, and even after they blew out the lamp and went to bed, Maxine said, “Don’t worry about Latin, kid. Ella Barnhill
is a whiz at it, and Miss Sipes really likes her. She promised to help me, and I’m sure she’ll help you too.”

The next morning at ten, Laurie entered the classroom where she would study literature under Professor Barton Sturgis. She was more nervous than she’d been in Aggie Sipes’ class and had to fight to control the tremor in her fingers. The class was already filled, and several of the students she’d met smiled and spoke to her. Laurie envied the ease of their manner and felt out of place in the classroom.

When Professor Barton Sturgis entered, she was disappointed in his appearance, for he was neither large nor handsome. Not over five eight or nine, she guessed, and somewhat overweight. As he moved to stand in front of the class, she saw that he had ordinary brown hair that was beginning to recede, a pair of rather large brown eyes, and a round, florid face. Despite his unprepossessing looks, he had some sort of animation that some people have, so that whenever they enter a room, everyone stares at them.

His eyes lit on Laurie at once, and he said in a rather surly tone, “I suppose you must be Miss Winslow.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sturgis had heard of her, Laurie could tell, and feared he might make some mocking remark about her western roots. But he did not. Instead he asked, “Why are you taking this class, Miss Winslow?”

Laurie thought,
He’s as abrupt as the president!
But aloud she said, “I’d like to learn how to write, Professor Sturgis.”

Sturgis stared at her with impatience in his expression. He’d met too many aspiring young writers to get excited about one more. “I’ll tell you what I tell everyone who gives me that answer—you don’t want to
write
—you want to
have written!
” He made a slashing movement with his rather fat hand, adding, “
Everybody
would like to see their name on a book cover and make a lot of money writing, but precious few want to pay what it costs to get there.” He stared at her for a moment, then said, “After class, Miss Winslow, you will
stay, and I will read what you have written. It probably won’t be much pleasure for either of us!”

Laurie had been terrified by his threat, and when the time came to hand him one of her writings, she was certain he would tear it to pieces.

Sturgis was pleased by the girl’s manner when she handed him the paper.
Not giving a stack of apologies—and not using her looks to gain points,
he thought. Taking his seat and preparing to read, he thought sourly,
Probably can’t write any better than the rest of them . . . !

Since Sturgis had not told her to sit down, Laurie stood stiffly in front of his desk. She was too nervous to watch his face, but stared out the window and watched a red squirrel that was busy collecting nuts and carting them up to a hole in a huge oak. He was an industrious worker, and she fixed her mind on him, wondering how many pecans he had stashed in the crevice. She had that ability to focus on a thing until all other thoughts faded, so when Sturgis spoke, it startled her.

“Why did you write about this subject, Miss Winslow?”

“Why—I think because it made me feel very sad.” Laurie had been fourteen when she’d seen a pack of wolves pull down a large doe and a helpless fawn. It had been a savage sight, and she’d never forgotten it. The incident had remained in her mind as clearly as a painting, and it had been both easy and painful to write about. Easy because she could almost literally
see
the details—and painful because she had never gotten over the grief she felt at seeing innocence suffer.

Sturgis stared at the girl, taking in the clean line of her jaw, the rich coloring that came from sun and wind—and not missing the clean rounded symmetry of her figure. He hated teaching, for most of it was a waste of time in his judgment. “You can’t really teach people to write,” he often said in private. “Aside from punctuation and spelling, there’s nothing much one person can pass on to another.” He had abundant proof of this theory, because none of his students had ever become successful writers.

But this one—she just might make it.
Sturgis got to his feet, and walked around the desk. When he came to face her, he could smell a faint aroma of violets, and he liked the way she faced him squarely, though she was obviously nervous.
She’s got nerve. Maybe that’s the wild west part of her.
“Most women don’t write about violent death,” he remarked. “They write about dances and flowers and beautiful houses.”

“I don’t know much about those things,” Laurie answered evenly. “I can’t write about things I don’t know.”

“Well, by heavens!” Sturgis exclaimed loudly. He stared at her with admiration, adding, “I’m glad to hear you’ve found out the one rule of good writing!”

Laurie flushed with pleasure but shook her head. “I don’t really know much about writing, Professor Sturgis,” she said. “I’ve always read a lot, and I like some writing and hate others. But I don’t know
why.
” Hesitating slightly, she said in a forthright manner, “I love your novels. That’s why I came to Wilson—to see if you could help me become a writer.”

“Why—”

Laurie interrupted him, saying, “I don’t know if you can teach a person to make a story come to life, though. It may be something a person is born with—or born without.”

Barton Sturgis was seldom at a loss for words—usually rather harsh words. But this young woman riding in out of the West had somehow shocked him into silence. She, without a doubt, had more raw talent than any young writer he’d ever encountered. And she seemed to be sensible in a way that very few amateurs were.

It had been his intention to steer clear of youthful writers—but as he stood there, he found himself fascinated by this almost unique combination of talent, beauty, and innocence.
I’m probably wrong,
he thought,
but even if she never learns to write, she’s not a whiner—and she’s pretty as a rose!

“Miss Winslow,” Barton Sturgis said slowly, “you and I are going to have to work very hard—very hard indeed!” He put his hand on her arm, squeezing it gently, and with excitement
in his brown eyes he asked, “Are you willing to spend extra time on this work? I mean late hours and weekends, when the other students are having fun and relaxing?”

Laurie could not believe her good fortune. “Oh yes, Professor Sturgis,” she whispered, her eyes bright with happiness. “I’ll do anything to become a writer!”

“So,” Sturgis murmured and released his grip on her arm. “We’ll begin at once. Suppose we meet after supper tonight? We’ll go over some of the things this paper needs . . .”

CHAPTER SIX

The Desire of the Heart

After staring at the blank sheet of paper for twenty minutes, Laurie finally shook her head and almost desperately began to write:

I don’t know how much of that they’ll believe—but most of it’s true enough. Laurie leaned back in her chair, letting memories of the past twelve months flow through her. Seems like ten years since I got off the train with Star! Suddenly she thought of her first day in class, how she’d been ready to quit
until Maxine had talked her out of that! Then she thought of her first meeting with Barton Sturgis—and her lips tightened into a thin line. He was going to “help” me so much! And I fell for the whole thing for so long, despite Maxine’s warning!

Bitterness welled up in her as she remembered those first months, especially those meetings with Sturgis.
I must have been the most naive girl who ever left home! And he took advantage of it!
But she had learned to let the anger go and now thought,
It’s a good thing I had Maxine and Mac to keep me straight. If they hadn’t been around—!

She’d come perilously close to losing her head over Sturgis, but it’d been the experience of Maxine and the wisdom of McGonigal that had made her realize at last that the man was nothing but an egotist and a womanizer. When she’d confronted him with it, he’d lashed out, telling her that she was just a foolish girl who read too much into things. That had been the end of her infatuation—and of their meetings. She’d felt like the world’s biggest fool, but that too had passed. She shook the memories away and began to write again:

Laurie paused and tried to think of some way to avoid hurting her parents. She simply loathed the thought of going back to that forlorn post in Arizona, but she could not let them know that.

Signing the letter, she sealed it, then rose and went to gaze out the window. The leaves had already turned red and yellow, but not with the flaming colors they’d had a year earlier when she’d first seen them. They looked old and dead, and the sight of them depressed her. She slipped into her riding outfit, pulled on her wool coat, and left the room. The campus seemed deserted, but she knew that most of the students were holed up in the library studying for finals. As she left the house and walked toward the stables she saw Maxine walking out of the academic building and hailed her. “Maxine—I’m going to the post office. Do you want me to mail any letters for you?”

Maxine looked up, startled, then headed toward Laurie. Looking down at the letter that Laurie held, she demanded, “You’re going to be stubborn about this, aren’t you?” Laurie just nodded, and Maxine said angrily, “It’s nutty! My dad would be glad to pay your tuition. You can pay him back after you graduate and go to work.”

“I know, Maxine,” Laurie smiled. “I wrote and thanked him for his kind offer, but I just can’t take it.”

Maxine bit her lip with vexation. She’d grown fond of Laurie and had tried every argument she could summon to get her to come back for at least one more year. But she saw
that further persuasion was useless, so she shrugged, saying, “I think you’re making a big mistake—but I guess I’ve made my share. Tell you what, I’ll meet you in town and buy you the biggest steak at Courtney’s.”

“All right. Meet you at six. We’ll cry all over each other while we eat.”

“Right!”

Laurie made her way to the stables, where she found McGonigal sitting on an upturned bucket whittling a stick of red cedar. Laurie watched him peel paper-thin shavings that curled like a pig’s tail, then fell into an aromatic heap at his feet. “Mac, why don’t you whittle
something
—like a bear or a whistle?” she asked, coming to stand by him. “All I’ve ever seen you do is make shavings.”

McGonigal glanced up at her from under bushy eyebrows, looking much like a terrier. “Faith, and do we always have to be making
something?
” he grunted. “An artist like me-self—why the pleasure of the thing, that’s where it is!” He let another shaving fall to the ground, then snapped the blade of the knife shut and dropped it into his pocket as he stood up. “A little ride is it?”

“Going to mail a letter, Mac.”

Something in the way the girl spoke caught the Irishman’s attention and he glanced at her sharply. The past year had been made bright by her presence, and he’d come to understand Laurie better than most. “What’s the trouble?” he asked, noting the small lines on each side of her lips, a sure sign that she was worried. “Your parents aren’t sick, I hope?”

“Oh no,” Laurie answered quickly. She had never mentioned her financial problems to McGonigal, but now she wanted to tell him what she had to do. They’d grown very close through the year, and she knew her leaving would be a loss for the little man. “I’ve got to go home, Mac. No more money to keep me here.”

Her words hit McGonigal hard, and he stood there silently, thinking what a dull place it would be without this spirited
girl. The two of them had the bond that good horsemen have, and she’d become an expert rider under his tutelage. She’d been a fine rider when she’d arrived, but he’d made her into an expert. And besides the standard gaits, he’d taught her fancy trick riding—which he’d done himself for years before he was crippled. “Just a bit of fun,” he’d told her, but when word of her skill had gotten around, she’d performed often at fairs and for schools in the area. He’d taught her how to go completely under Star’s belly while the big gelding was running at full speed by using several straps he’d added to a special saddle. Riding while standing up was easy, but Mac had taught her how to rope and even shoot at a target with his pistol. The two of them had worked out a repertoire of stunts, including one that always brought the crowd to its feet and made the women scream. It consisted of a concealed strap with a snap that Laurie could secretly attach to her belt. Then, riding her horse at full speed, she would suddenly throw herself over backward. The strap caught her when her head was almost on the ground, though it looked to the spectators as if she’d be trampled by Star’s pounding hooves.