He took a breath and tried to think of something else. Something pleasant.
The room held the scent of a lingering perfume, which, now that he thought about it, probably was Cecilia’s. She had lived here, slept in this bed. A vision of brilliant blue eyes and pouting pink lips danced in front of him, making him ache for another feminine touch he hadn’t partaken of in a long time. But that was best not to think about right now, either.
He had some unhappy business to tend to—namely, the bundle of letters he’d found in Pendergast’s things that he’d been avoiding reading for a whole week. Luckily, he’d also found some rather entertaining reading material—a stack of cheap flimsy books about sheriffs and outlaws and other infamous frontier characters.
The silly tales had probably been fodder for Pendergast’s fantasies, fueling his disappointment with the true frontier. They surely explained the man’s half Yankee half gunslinger way of talking. During the past few days, Jake had been thankful for the books, since reading the stories had allowed him to put off the inevitable.
He dreaded the thought of having to write the dead man’s grieving wife, or sweetheart, or worse, his mama, and explain Pendergast’s messy—not to mention confusing—death.
It was an easy guess that the letters were from a woman. The lilac stationery still had a trace of flowery smell to it, probably the scent favored by the sender, and the graceful handwriting across the envelopes could only belong to a female. Thankfully, all the letters were written by the same hand. There would be only one person to write to.
There weren’t many letters, either, and as he opened them, he saw that the dates were all recent. He took the one with the oldest date and with a sigh began reading.
Dearest Brother... So it was his sister. That had been easy enough to figure out. I wish you had not felt the need to leave us so soon, although I understand perfectly your restlessness. You would probably be shocked to know that I, your quiet older sister, also have dreams of travel. Though I would have chosen an area other than Texas, surely a wilder place than those of my fantasies. But you are a man, and younger... Jake skimmed the remaining paragraphs to the signature. Your loving sister, Rosalyn.
All the remaining missives struck a similar chord. This Rosalyn was not one to dwell on the tedious details of everyday life, preferring a more philosophical tone. Fortunately, Jake was able to glean a few facts. First, that Rosalyn was still living in Philadelphia, where she gave lessons and lived in the home of a not-too-well-loved hypochondriac aunt, to whom she gave most of her earnings. Not a happy life, Jake gathered, and it had probably been stifling for a young man.
As for Pendergast, Jake discovered that he’d been gone for some months, choosing to travel to Texas at a snail’s pace, visiting every relative and friend he had along the way. He didn’t think he would return to Philadelphia, apparently, or ever make enough as a country schoolteacher to afford to travel again.
He’d been right on both counts.
The most disturbing aspect of the letters was Rosalyn’s obvious intent to join Pendergast when he was settled—as if Pendergast would have lasted that long! Small chance, considering the fact that the man was already hotfooting it back to Pennsylvania when Jake ran into him. Nevertheless, Jake needed to nip this plan of hers in the bud, fast.
It was taking a risk, but Jake decided to simply tell her the truth—after a fashion. There was no reason the woman should know that the bullet her brother took was actually meant for him. Just that it was an unfortunate mix-up, and her brother had met a brave end.
What more would a woman want to know, after all? Jake would of course enclose the money he found in Pendergast’s satchel, a tidy sum that she could squirrel away from her aunt. Probably the woman would write back, requesting Pendergast’s things. He would just have to plead ignorance on that score. There was no way he could explain that he couldn’t return them because he needed to wear them himself.
After that, she would probably be satisfied...or in any case, by that time his charade would be over. Then, with any luck, Jake would never have to hear the name Rosalyn Pendergast again.
* * *
Mr. Pendergast was written in large, neat letters across the top of the blackboard at the front of the classroom. The children were all in their seats, working busily. Pendergast himself was seated at the teacher’s desk, helping twelve-year-old Wilbur Smith, normally the rowdiest one in the class, with a mathematics problem.
Cecilia, peeping around the corner at the back of the room, could have cried. Her hands were red and chapped from scalding water, and she still had the linens yet to do. She’d come over to the schoolhouse in hopes of buoying her spirits, but this was not the chaotic scene she had anticipated.
The eighteen pupils in the small room were all perfectly behaved, bent over their books and slates, their faces studies in concentration. Here and there a whisper would break out, only to be silenced moments later, voluntarily, by the offender. What on earth had the man done to these children, Cecilia fumed, mesmerized them?
They had never behaved so well for her!
Maybe he really was a teacher, and all her suspicions were just so much wishful thinking. If that was the case, then there was no point to her being in Annsboro, working her pruny scalded fingers to the bone. At least at home, even under the disapproving eye of her father, she had Clara, their wonderful housekeeper, to cook and wait on her.
Of course, Clara, who was concerned about Cecilia’s motherless state and took it upon herself to warn her of the many pitfalls in life, especially when it came to men, was not the most scintillating companion. Mostly, she criticized Cecilia’s penchant for trouble and handed out advice on how to behave around the male sex.
This time next week, she’d probably be up to her ears in platitudes....
As Cecilia began to back dejectedly toward the door, her boot heel scraped against a knot in the floorboard, throwing her off-balance. She pitched forward and grabbed onto the coatrack, grasping for dear life. Unable to get a steady handhold or regain her footing, Cecilia pawed frantically at the knobs holding a variety of caps, hats and bonnets. She did an awkward little dance downward with the stick of wood until her rump unceremoniously hit the floor.
Eighteen bodies swiveled in their seats, then jumped to attention. During her short tenure, she’d tried to teach the children to stand respectfully when an adult entered the room. Naturally, after a day under Pendergast’s stewardship, they actually did it.
“Ah, Miss Summertree,” Pendergast said, scurrying down the room’s center aisle. “How nice of you to come for a visit.” As he loomed over her, his dark eyes danced with speculation. Gallantly, he offered her his hand. “Although I could swear you looked as though you were spying on us.”
“Spying? Spying?” Cecilia asked, unmoving. She felt the strings of a sunbonnet dangling by one of her ears. “Of course I wasn’t spying!”
Muffled giggles broke out among the children who’d gathered around. Seeing their former schoolmistress literally brought low was obviously irresistible.
Jake wanted to laugh himself. He’d seen Cecilia nosing around and wondered if she was going to announce herself. Apparently, she’d hoped to find him completely inept, which of course he was. Fortunately, his dealings as a deputy had taught him about seedier ways of getting what you want—namely, through bribery. For his class’s performance this day, he was nearly a dollar down in candy payments. Yet it was worth every penny to see the distress in his beautiful adversary’s liquid blue eyes.
Cecilia ignored his outstretched arm and pushed herself up. “I just wanted to see if you were having any difficulties,” she said hastily, dusting herself off. “I thought you might need some help on your first day.”
“How thoughtful of you,” Jake said, frowning distastefully as she swatted