At lunch on Monday she made a call to the state board of education to find out what she had to do to make certain Joe’s studies would be accepted toward his diploma. She knew she had the qualifications, but there was also a good deal of paperwork to be done before he could earn the necessary credits by private tutoring. She made the call on the pay phone in the tiny teacher’s lounge, which was never used because there were only three teachers, each teaching four grades, and there was never any time for a break. Nevertheless it had three chairs and a table, a tiny, dented refrigerator, an automatic coffee maker and the pay phone. It was so unusual for any of the teachers to use the lounge that Mary was surprised when the door opened and Sharon Wycliffe, who taught grades one through four, poked her head in.
“Mary, are you feeling sick or anything?”
“No, I’m fine.” Mary stood and dusted off her hands. The receiver had carried a gray coating, evidence of how often it was used. “I was making a call.”
“Oh. I just wondered. You’d been in here a long time, and I thought you might not be feeling well. Who were you calling?”
The question was asked without any hesitancy. Sharon had been born in Ruth, had gone to school here, had married a local boy. Everyone in Ruth knew every one of the other one hundred and eighty inhabitants; they all knew each other’s business and saw nothing unusual about it. Small towns were merely large extended families. Mary wasn’t taken aback by Sharon’s open curiosity, having already experienced it.
“The state board. I needed some information on teaching requirements.”
Sharon looked alarmed. “Do you think you aren’t properly certified? If there’s any trouble, the school board will likely commit mass suicide. You don’t know how hard it is to find a teacher with the proper qualifications willing to come to a town as small as Ruth. They were almost at the panic stage when you were located. The kids were going to have to start going to school over sixty miles away.”
“No, it isn’t that. I thought I might begin private tutoring, if any of the kids need it.” She didn’t mention Joe Mackenzie, because she couldn’t forget the warnings both he and his father had given her.
“Thank goodness it isn’t bad news,” Sharon exclaimed. “I’d better get back to the kids before they get into trouble.” With a wave and a smile she withdrew her head, her curiosity satisfied.
Mary hoped Sharon didn’t mention it to Dottie Lancaster, the teacher who taught grades five through eight, but she knew it was a futile hope. Eventually, everything in Ruth became common knowledge. Sharon was warm and full of good humor with her young charges, and Mary’s teaching style was rather relaxed, too, but Dottie was strict and abrupt with the students. It made Mary uncomfortable, because she sensed Dottie regarded her job as merely a job, something that was necessary but not enjoyed. She had even heard that Dottie, who was fifty-five, was thinking about an early retirement. For all Dottie’s shortcomings, that would certainly upset the local school board, because as Sharon had pointed out, it was almost impossible to get a teacher to relocate to Ruth. The town was just too small and too far away from everything.
As she taught the last classes of the day, Mary found herself studying the young girls and wondering which one had daringly flirted with Joe Mackenzie, then retreated when he had actually asked her out. Several of the girls were very attractive and flirtatious, and though they had the shallowness typical of teenagers, they all seemed likable. But which one would have attracted Joe, who wasn’t shallow, whose eyes were far too old for a sixteen-year-old boy? Natalie Ulrich, who was tall and graceful? Pamela Hearst, who had the sort of blond good looks that belonged on a California beach? Or maybe it was Jackie Baugh, with her dark, sultry eyes. It could be any of the eight girls in her classes, she realized. They were used to being pursued, having had the stupendous good luck to be outnumbered, nine to eight, by the boys. They were all flirts. So which one was it?
She wondered why it mattered, but it did. One of these girls, though she hadn’t broken Joe’s heart, had nevertheless dealt him what could have been a life-destroying blow. Joe had taken it as the final proof that he’d never have a place in the white man’s world, and he’d withdrawn. He still might never re-enter this school, but at least he’d agreed to be tutored. If only he didn’t lose hope.
When school was out, she swiftly gathered all the materials she would need that night, as well as the papers she had to grade, and hurried to her car. It was only a short drive to Hearst’s General Store, and when she asked, Mr. Hearst kindly directed her to the stacks of shelving in a corner.
A few minutes later the door opened to admit another customer. Mary saw Wolf as soon as he entered the store; she had been examining the shelving, but it was as if her skin was an alarm system, signaling his nearness. Her nerves tingled, the hair at the nape of her neck bristled, she looked up, and there he was. Instantly she shivered, and her nipples tightened. Distress at that uncontrollable response sent blood rushing to her face.
With her peripheral vision she saw Mr. Hearst stiffen, and for the first time she truly believed the things Wolf had told her about the way he was regarded in town. He hadn’t done anything, hadn’t said anything, but it was obvious Mr. Hearst wasn’t happy to have him in the store.
Quickly she turned back to the shelving. She couldn’t look him in the eye. Her face heated even more when she thought of the way she’d acted, throwing herself at him like a sex-starved old maid. It didn’t help her feelings that he probably thought she was a sex-starved old maid; she couldn’t argue with the old maid part, but she had never paid much attention to the other until Wolf had taken her in his arms. When she thought of the things she had done…
Her face was on fire. Her body was on fire. There was no way she could talk to him. What must he think of her? With fierce concentration, she read the instructions on the box of shelving and pretended she hadn’t seen him enter the store.
She had read the instructions three times before she realized she was acting just like the people he had described: too good to speak to him, disdaining to acknowledge knowing him. Mary was normally even-tempered, but suddenly rage filled her, and it was rage at herself. What sort of person was she?
She jerked the box of shelving toward her and nearly staggered under the unexpected weight. Just as she turned, Wolf laid a box of nails on the checkout counter and reached in his pocket for his wallet.
Mr. Hearst glanced briefly at Wolf; then his eyes cut to where Mary was struggling with the box. “Here, Miss Potter, let me get that,” he said, rushing from behind the counter to grab the box. He grunted as he hefted it in his arms. “Can’t have you wrestling with something this heavy. Why, you might hurt yourself.”
Mary wondered how he thought she would get it from her car into her house if she didn’t handle it herself, but refrained from pointing that out. She followed him back to the counter, squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, looked up at Wolf and said clearly, “Hello, Mr. Mackenzie. How are you?”
His night-dark eyes glittered, perhaps in warning. “Miss Potter,” he said in brief acknowledgment, touching the brim of his hat with his fingers, but he refused to respond to her polite inquiry.
Mr. Hearst looked sharply at Mary. “You know him, Miss Potter?”
“Indeed I do. He rescued me Saturday when my car broke down and I was stranded in the snow.” She kept her voice clear and strong.
Mr. Hearst darted a suspicious look at Wolf. “Hmmph,” he said, then reached for the box of shelving to ring it up.
“Excuse me,” Mary said. “Mr. Mackenzie was here first.”
She heard Wolf mutter a curse under his breath, or at least she thought it was a curse. Mr. Hearst turned red.
“I don’t mind waiting,” Wolf said tightly.
“I wouldn’t dream of cutting in front of you.” She folded her hands at her waist and pursed her lips. “I couldn’t be that rude.”
“Ladies first,” Mr. Hearst said, trying for a smile.
Mary
gave him a stern look. “Ladies shouldn’t take advantage of their gender, Mr. Hearst. This is an age of equal treatment and fairness. Mr. Mackenzie was here first, and he should be waited on first.”
Wolf shook his head and gave her a disbelieving look. “Are you one of those women’s libbers?”
Mr. Hearst glared at him. “Don’t take that tone with her, Indian.”
“Now, just a minute.” Controlling her outrage, she shook her finger at him. “That was rude and entirely uncalled for. Why, your mother would be ashamed of you, Mr. Hearst. Didn’t she teach you better than that?”
He turned even redder. “She taught me just fine,” he mumbled, staring at her finger.
There was something about a schoolteacher’s finger; it had an amazing, mystical power. It made grown men quail before it. She had noticed the effect before and decided that a schoolteacher’s finger was an extension of Mother’s finger, and as such it wielded unknown authority. Women grew out of the feeling of guilt and helplessness brought on by that accusing finger, perhaps because most of them became mothers and developed their own powerful finger, but men never did. Mr. Hearst was no exception. He looked as if he wanted to crawl under his own counter.
“Then I’m certain you’ll want to make her proud of you,” she said in her most austere voice. “After you, Mr. Mackenzie.”
Wolf made a sound that was almost a growl, but Mary stared at him until he jerked the money from his wallet and threw it on the counter. Without another word, Mr. Hearst rang up the nails and made change. Equally silent, Wolf grabbed the box of nails, spun on his heel and left the store.
“Thank you,” Mary said, finally relenting and bestowing a forgiving smile on Mr. Hearst. “I knew you would understand how important it is to me that I be treated fairly. I don’t wish to take advantage of my position as a teacher here.” She made it sound as if being a teacher was at least as important as being queen, but Mr. Hearst only nodded, too relieved to pursue the matter. He took her money and dutifully carried the box of shelving out to her car, where he stored it in the trunk for her.
“Thank you,” she said again. “By the way, Pamela—she is your daughter, isn’t she?”
Mr. Hearst looked worried. “Yes, she is.” Pam was his youngest, and the apple of his eye.
“She’s a lovely girl and a good student. I just wanted you to know that she’s doing well in school.”
His face was wreathed in smiles as she drove away.
Wolf pulled over at the corner and watched his rearview mirror, waiting for Mary to exit the store. He was so angry he wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled, and that made him even angrier, because he knew he wouldn’t do it.
Damn her! He’d warned her, but she hadn’t listened. Not only had she made it plain they were acquainted, she had outlined the circumstances of their meeting and then championed him in a way that wouldn’t go unnoticed.
Hadn’t she understood when he’d told her he was an ex-con, and why? Did she think he’d been joking?
His hands clenched around the steering wheel. She’d had her hair twisted up in a knot again, and those big glasses perched on her nose, hiding the soft slate-blue of her eyes, but he remembered how she had looked with her hair down, wearing Joe’s old jeans that had clung tightly to her slender legs and hips. He remembered the way passion had glazed her eyes when he’d kissed her. He remembered the softness of her lips, though she had had them pressed together in a ridiculously prim expression.
If he had any sense he’d just drive away. If he stayed completely away from her, there wouldn’t be anything for people to talk about other than the fact that she was tutoring Joe, and that would be bad enough in their eyes.
But how would she get that box out of the car and into the house when she got home? It probably weighed as much as she did. He would just carry the box in for her, and at the same time peel a strip off her hide for not listening to him.
Oh, hell, who was he fooling? He’d had a taste of her, and he wanted more. She was a frumpy old maid, but her skin was as pale and translucent as a baby’s, and her slender body would be soft, gently curving under his hands. He wanted to touch her. After kissing her, holding her, he hadn’t gone to see Julie Oakes because he hadn’t been able to get the feel of Miss Mary Potter out of his mind, off of his body. He still ached. His physical frustration was painful, and it was going to get worse, because if he’d ever known anything, it was that Miss Mary Potter wasn’t for him.
Her car pulled out from in front of the store and passed him. Smothering another curse, he put the truck in gear and slowly followed her. She maintained a sedate pace, following the two-lane highway out of town, then turning off on the narrow secondary road that led to her house. She had to see his truck behind her, but she didn’t give any indication that she knew she was being followed. Instead she drove straight to her house, carefully turned in at the snow-packed driveway and guided the car around to her customary parking spot behind the house.
Wolf shook his head as he pulled in behind her and got out of the truck. She was already out of her car, and she smiled at him as she fished the house key out of her purse. Didn’t she remember what he’d told her? He couldn’t believe that he’d told her he’d served time for rape and still she greeted him as calmly as if he were a priest, though they were the only two people for miles around.
“Damn it all, lady!” he barked at her, his long legs carrying him to her in a few strides. “Didn’t you listen to anything I said Saturday?”
“Yes, of course I listened. That doesn’t mean I agreed.” She unlocked the trunk and smiled at him. “While you’re here, would you please carry this box in for me? I’d really appreciate it.”
“That’s why I stopped,” he snapped. “I knew you couldn’t handle it.”
His ill temper didn’t seem to faze her. She merely smiled at him again as he lifted the box onto his shoulder, then led the way to the back door and opened it.
The first thing he noticed was that the house had a fresh, sweet smell to it, instead of the musty smell of an old house that had stood empty for a long time. His head lifted, and against his will he inhaled the faint scent. “What’s that smell?”
She stopped and sniffed delicately. “What smell?”
“That sweet smell. Like flowers.”
“Flowers? Oh, that must be the lilac sachet I put in all the drawers to freshen them. So many of the sachets are overpowering, but the lilacs are just right, don’t you think?”
He didn’t know anything about sachets, whatever they were, but if she put them in all the drawers, then her underwear must smell like lilacs, too. Her sheets would smell like lilacs and the warm scent of her body. His body responded strongly to the thought, and he cursed, then set the box down with a thud. Though the house was chilly, he felt sweat break out on his forehead.
“Let me turn up the heat,” she said, ignoring his cursing. “The furnace is old and noisy, but I don’t have any wood for the fireplace, so it’ll have to do.” As she talked, she left the kitchen and turned down a hallway, her voice growing fainter. Then she was back, and she smiled at him again. “It’ll be warm in just a minute. Would you like a cup of tea?” After giving him a measuring look she said, “Make that coffee. You don’t look like a tea-drinking man.”
He was already warm. He was burning up. He pulled off his gloves and tossed them on the kitchen table. “Don’t you know everybody in that town will be talking about you now? Lady, I’m Indian, and I’m an ex-con—”
“Mary,” she interrupted briskly.
“What?”
“My name is Mary, not ‘lady.’ Mary Elizabeth.” She added the second name out of habit because Aunt Ardith had always called her by both names. “Are you certain you don’t want coffee? I need something to warm up my insides.”
His hat joined the gloves, and he raked an impatient hand through his hair. “All right. Coffee.”
Mary turned to run the water and measure the coffee, using the activity to hide the
sudden color in her face. His hair. She felt stupid, but she’d hardly noticed his hair before. Maybe she’d been too upset, then too bemused, or maybe it was just that his midnight-black eyes had taken her attention, but she hadn’t noticed before how long his hair was. It was thick and black and shiny, and touched his broad shoulders. He looked magnificently pagan; she had immediately pictured him with his powerful chest and legs bare, his body covered only by a breechclout or loincloth, and her pulse rate had gone wild.
He didn’t sit down, but propped his long body against the cabinet beside her. Mary kept her head down, hoping her blush would subside. What was it about the man that the mere sight of him triggered erotic fantasies? She had certainly never had any fantasies before, erotic or otherwise. She had never before looked at a man and wondered what he looked like nude, but the thought of Wolf nude made her ache inside, made her hands itch to touch him.
“What the hell are you doing letting me even come in your house, let alone inviting me to have coffee?” he asked in a low, rough voice.
She blinked at him, her expression startled. “Why shouldn’t I?”
He thought he might explode with frustration. “Lady—”
“Mary.”
His big fists clenched. “Mary. Don’t you have any better sense than to let an ex-con into your house?”