Carol Ritten Smith Page 2

  “Who started this?” she demanded.

  No one confessed.

  “I’m going to close my eyes. Whoever started this foolishness had better step forward by the time I count to three … or every single student will have to write lines. One … two … ” Before she got to three, there was a scuffle. “Three,” she said and opened her eyes. Standing before her was Freddie North, no doubt pushed front and center by his fellow classmates.

  It didn’t surprise Beth in the least he was the culprit. But today of all days, why couldn’t it have been someone else? Freddie’s father was Raymond North, the owner of North’s Bank. Beth planned to go to the bank this afternoon for a loan so Bill could buy a horse. Punishing his son would not go in her favor.

  Beth felt sick. “Did you take Penelope’s hat from her, Freddie?” Please say no.

  Freddie gave her a belligerent look. “What if I did?”

  “You should not take someone else’s property without their permission. Did you ask Penelope if you could have it?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “He did not! I would never let him have my bonnet!”

  Freddie turned on her. “We was just playing a little game o’ keep away. Ain’t no harm in that.”

  Beth interceded. “The harm is that Penelope’s hat is now in that tree with no way to get it down.” She knew she was committed to follow through with some form of discipline. “Fred, I want you to go into the school, and write fifty times on the chalkboard, ‘I will show restraint when tempted to do wrong.’ And be sure to use a dictionary.”

  Freddie groaned. “But — ”

  “Make that seventy-five times.” She stared him down, knowing that if he openly disobeyed, she would have no way to enforce her discipline. He wasn’t much taller than her, but he was far stronger. Her heart thudded erratically. When Freddie stomped toward the schoolhouse, she slowly released her breath. “I will show restraint when tempted to do wrong,” she hollered after him.

  The remaining boys stood, hands in pockets, looking guilty and likely thanking their lucky rabbit’s foot they hadn’t thought of grabbing Penelope’s hat first.

  This was Beth’s first major disciplinary action. She hoped the other students took note that Miss Patterson was not a teacher to push about. She was in control of what happened on the school grounds and they had better remember it!

  “Teacher, how are you going to get the hat down?”

  Beth felt her control blow away like a leaf in a tornado. What was she going to do? It was obviously too high to reach with a broom.

  “I can climb up there and get it,” an older boy volunteered.

  “No, you most certainly can not. No children are to climb this tree. That’s the rule.”

  Davy shot his hand straight into the air. “I know! You could climb it, Beth. You’re not a kid anymore. You’re all growed up. And you used to be real good at climbing tr … ” His voice petered out when Beth glared at him.

  “Oh, please, Miss Patterson,” Penelope begged in a fresh rush of tears. “Mother will be so upset if she finds out I wore it to school. Auntie sent it all the way from Toronto.”

  “Hush. Let me think.” Absurd as Davy’s suggestion may have been, Beth decided the only viable solution was to climb the tree herself. She looked over the maple’s structure. When she was younger, she’d shinnied up trees a lot trickier. “Very well, I’ll do the climbing. Everyone stand well back.”

  Immediately, the class backed up several paces. Turning to the maple, Beth lifted one leg and settled her foot firmly in a waist high crook. For once, she was thankful for the many layers of concealing petticoats dictated by fashion. She looked up, reached for a branch above her head, grabbed it, and pulled herself up. She reached for the next limb. Despite the branches snagging her bulky skirt and petticoats, Beth climbed with confidence until she reached the branch cradling the hat. Its feathers fluttered in the gentle autumn breeze.

  She looked down. The class had moved forward again. “Everyone back!” she commanded. “I don’t want you hurt if I fall.”

  She inched out along the limb. It creaked under her weight. She carefully shifted herself further along and stretched forward with her arm. The bonnet was at least ten inches out of reach. If she just budged a little bit more … Suddenly the branch dropped six inches and Beth nearly fell.

  The girls below screamed.

  “It’s okay. I’m fine.” Beth wondered if she was reassuring herself or her students. She decided it was unsafe to continue and started back down. “The branch isn’t strong enough,” she explained. A short wispy stem caught a strand of her hair and pulled it from the tidy knot at the back of her head.

  “Still looking for Cally, Miss Patterson?” a deep voice asked.

  Chapter 2

  Lord love a duck! Beth looked down through the branches. There stood Tom Carver, his head cocked back, gazing up at her. He sported an exceptionally wide smile. Beth could only imagine how she must look with her petticoats draped on either side of the branch, her hair a mess. She scrambled down from the tree.

  “That was a pretty sight.”

  Beth glanced to see if any of her students overheard his comment. She couldn’t tell. “Mr. Carver. A gentleman would have averted his eyes.”

  “I tell you what, the next time you’re up a tree, I promise to look away.” He grinned.

  She wondered how many times he had used his swarthy good looks to get out of trouble. Well, it wouldn’t wash with her! “The wind carried Penelope’s hat into the tree. I was merely trying to retrieve it for her.”

  “Seems to me, you might do better if you were wearing those britches again,” he said in a low voice.

  The nerve of him! “Mr. Carver,” she retorted, her whisper seething with outrage, “it is none of your business what clothes I do or do not wear.”

  Tom shook his head. “Oh, trust me, Miss Patterson, if you chose to wear no clothes, I’d make it my business.”

  Beth gasped and hot color poured into her cheeks. How dare he be so crass, once again warping her words into something crude! She presented her back to him and clapped her hands. “Children, lunch break is over.”

  “But what about my hat?” Penelope cried.

  “You will just have to wait for the wind to bring it down.”

  Tom tipped his head back to peer through the leafy branches. “I haven’t climbed a tree in a long time … oh, what the heck! I’ll give it a go.” He whipped off his leather blacksmith apron and dropped it in the brittle grass. Stepping up to the maple’s trunk, he reached high above his head for a secure hold and started climbing. He rapidly ascended the maple and moved along the branch beyond the point where Beth had stopped. It groaned under his weight, but dropped no further.

  Beth hoped the branch would break. Nothing would please her more than to see that scoundrel flat on his back. But the branch held and with the agility of a cougar Tom stretched out on the limb and retrieved the bonnet, then descended with it perched at a jaunty angle upon his head. He jumped the last few feet to the ground, removed the bonnet, and bowed low. The children applauded exuberantly.

  “You just have to know how to distribute your weight properly.” Tom turned the hat over and inspected its plumage. “If you ask me, this thing looked more at home in the tree. Surely women don’t wear hats like this. Those feathers would make any person look bird-brained.”

  Several boys snickered. Beth snatched the hat from Tom and handed it to Penelope. “Mr. Carver, this bonnet is of the latest fashion back East. All proper women wear them.”

  “Yeah? Judging by your get-up the other night, I guess you would know.”

  It took a great deal of restraint to resist kicking him in the shin. “If you will excuse me, I have classes to teach.” She marched to the school steps. “Come along, children. Line up, please. Tidy rows now.”

  She stood tall and straight as each student filed past her into the school. Before she could follow them inside, Tom hollered, “One other thin
g, Miss Patterson.”

  “What now?”

  He ambled over to her. “Got so distracted with you in the tree and all, I almost forgot why I came over in the first place. Mr. Hoosman had a mare stolen late Friday night. You remember Friday night? We met in my barn.”

  She could tell he was watching for a reaction and she was determined not to give him one.

  Tom continued, “He asked me to come out to his place to have a look around. You know, to see if I could find any clues. And guess what I found?”

  “Really, Mr. Carver, I don’t have time for guessing games. What did you find?”

  From inside his trousers, Tom withdrew something small. “Your knife. Right there in Hoosman’s corral. Now how do you suppose it got there?”

  “I have no idea.” She kept her face void of any emotion. “But thank you for returning it.”

  “No problem. But be careful with it. I sharpened it for you.”

  She refused to thank him for his trouble. She entered the school, gripping the pocketknife until her knuckles were white. She tossed it into her desk drawer, propped her elbows on the desk and leaned her head into her palms. Her head pounded. Had Bill decided after his unsuccessful foray at the Carver place to try to steal Hoosman’s horse?

  Probably, and now his foolish actions had roused suspicions and she was left to deal with that contemptuous blacksmith. Beth massaged tiny circles along the sides of her tight neck.

  “Is everything all right, Beth?” Davy asked, standing in front of her desk.

  Oh yes. My one brother is a would-be thief, I’m a murderer, and we’re trusting a six-year-old with our secrets. Things couldn’t be better. “Go back to your seat, Davy. Children, get out your slates.”

  • • •

  Freddie North remained after dismissal to complete his lines, but the moment the final word was written, he cleared out. “You’re going to be sorry,” he threatened over his shoulder before leaving.

  Beth had no doubt he’d go straight to his indulgent father and give him a woe-be-gone story about his unjust punishment. Sighing, she grabbed her sweater off the back of her chair. “Come on, Davy.”

  “Where’re we going?” he asked, retrieving a marble from under the washstand at the back of the classroom.

  “To the bank.”

  “For money for Bill’s horse?”

  “That’s right. Now, when we get there, I want you to wait outside. I won’t be long.”

  “Would it be all right if I go to Betner’s store to look around?”

  “I suppose, but don’t be a pest. And don’t touch anything!”

  “I won’t.”

  • • •

  Mr. North’s office was a small cubicle partitioned off by a three-foot high wall, and just as Beth had predicted, Freddie was expounding to his father. Turning her back to them, she marched directly to the first wicket.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Patterson. How may I help you?” the male clerk asked.

  “I’m here to see about getting a loan.”

  “Oh, then you’ll need to talk to Mr. North. Please have a seat. I believe Mr. North is engaged at the moment.”

  The uncomfortable wooden chair did little to ease Beth’s nervousness, nor did watching Freddie gesticulate wildly as he related the incident. Every so often she’d catch a word or two, and Mr. North would frown. She forced her attention elsewhere.

  The bank was finished with rich, dark walnut paneling. Above the clock on the back wall hung a portrait of a prominent man bearing a remarkable resemblance to Mr. North, no doubt Mr. North Senior and likely the bank’s founder. Beth fortified herself with the realization that if the bank had been in business that many years it was because of sound business management. Surely Freddie’s sniveling would not thwart her chances of getting a loan.

  Still, when Freddie sauntered past her on his way out, looking smug and satisfied, Beth worried.

  After the teller advised him of Beth’s presence, Mr. North came forward and opened the gate to his cubicle. “Good afternoon, Miss Patterson. Please, come in.”

  Reassured by his professional manner, she took the seat he indicated while he circled around the desk to his leather-padded chair. “Now, what can I do for you today?” he asked as he braced his elbows on the desktop and steepled his fingers.

  “I’d like a loan to buy Bill a horse.”

  “A horse.” He nodded. “Let’s see what we can do.”

  Beth felt better.

  North opened his top drawer and pulled out a form, then picked up his pen and dipped it in his ink well. “All right.” He smiled at her, putting her completely at ease. “Let’s see what you have for collateral. First item, property. You’re living in the old Grant place, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. We’re renting. The school board made all the arrangements.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember hearing about that. You have no other property?”

  “No.”

  North scratched a zero in the box beside the word property.

  “How about livestock?”

  “Oh, we have a few laying hens.”

  Mr. North smiled in an overly solicitous manner, as if Beth were a senseless child. “I’m sorry, but we don’t accept poultry as collateral. They die too easily. I was thinking more in the line of cattle, or pigs … or horses.” Then he laughed. “Oh no, of course you don’t have any horses or you wouldn’t be here for a loan, now would you?”

  “No,” Beth replied, sinking slightly in her chair.

  With a satisfied smirk much like Freddie’s, Mr. North filled in another zero on the form. There was no mistaking the enjoyment he derived from humiliating her, but Beth was willing to be humbled if it meant getting the loan.

  After scribbling several more zeros, North put down his pen, and scratched his balding, aged-spotted scalp as if pondering the situation. He sighed in exasperation. “As you can see Miss Patterson, you are what we bankers call a high-risk applicant.”

  “I understand,” Beth replied, understanding only too well. “But what about the money Bill and I make? Couldn’t we take a loan against that?”

  “It is quite obvious that you and your brother’s earnings are barely sufficient.” He stared at her, as if waiting to see if she’d grovel for the money. Finally he inked his pen nib. “I’ll tell you what. Against my better judgment, I’ll lend you the money.” He scratched a few numbers on a slip of paper and slid it across the desk to Beth. “That should be enough and I think the interest is fair.”

  Fair! At first she thought he was joking, but the look on his face told her he was dead serious. She fought to keep her anger in check. “Mr. North, this is far higher than the prime lending rate.”

  “Yes, I realize that. But the bank is sticking its neck out. That should be worth something.” North clasped his hands together on his desktop. “That is the term of this loan. Take it or leave it.”

  Beth rose from her chair, no longer able to contain her mounting frustration and anger. “But that’s unfair!”

  North also rose from his seat to meet her eye to eye. “Miss Patterson, kindly show restraint,” he said, flinging at her the very words she had Freddie write on the blackboard. “Now, if you are unwilling to accept these terms, then please leave my office. I don’t have time to waste with you or your brother’s petty wants.” He dropped into his cushioned chair and tossed Beth’s loan application in the wastebasket, indicating that he was quite finished with her.

  Tears threatened, but she would not give North the satisfaction of knowing how upset she was. She picked up the paper he had written the figures on, tore it up and dropped the pieces. They floated down to his desk like bleached autumn leaves. “You may have the only bank in Whistle Creek, Mr. North, but there are other towns and other banks … with owners who would never permit their personal grievances to get in the way of their business dealings. They are far too professional. Good day!”

  The bank was silent, so silent that when Beth accidentally knocked a pen onto the flo
or, she heard it bounce. Everyone stared at her as if stunned by her outburst. Holding her head high, she exited the bank and strode across the street to Betner’s store to find Davy. She marveled that her trembling legs could hold her up since her confrontation with Mr. North had sapped most of her self-confidence.

  Inside she saw Tom Carver leaning against the back counter, visiting with Earl and Mary Betner. Great. Him again. A few feet away, Davy stood on tiptoe, peering into the glass jars filled with jawbreakers, all-day suckers, saltwater taffy, and licorice pipes.

  Beth summoned forth the last of her poise as she approached the counter. “Come on, Davy, it’s time to go home.” She deliberately stood with her back to Tom. She was shaking and it wouldn’t take much to make her melt into a puddle of tears.

  “Did you get the money?” Davy asked.

  “We’ll talk about it when we get home.” She kept her voice low, hoping Davy would take the hint and drop the subject.

  “But what did the loan man say?”

  “Davy! Enough! We’ll talk about it later.” This time her voice held a stern warning.

  “Oh, all right. Can I get a licorice pipe?”

  “No.”

  “They’re not real. They’re pretend. Those are just tiny red candies on the end to make — ”

  “Davy! I said no!”

  “But why not? I didn’t break nothin’, did I, Mister Betner?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Beth grabbed Davy’s hand and dragged him outside.

  • • •

  Tom plunged the red-hot iron into the nearby bucket of water and, while waiting for it to cool, looked out the smithy’s wide open doors. Sure enough, the younger Patterson boy was sitting on the boardwalk across the street, tossing pebbles absentmindedly into a mud puddle. His narrow shoulders were slumped as if the weight of his plaid shirt was too much for him.

  This was the third consecutive afternoon the kid had been there. On a nice autumn day like today he ought to be ripping around, getting into mischief with other boys his age. Tom considered going over to talk to him, then shook his head. Mind your own business, Carver. The boy is none of your concern.