A Gown of Spanish Lace Page 3

  Others seemed to agree. Ariana thought of her teaching in the local school as an addition to her Sunday school class in her father’s church. Not all the townsfolk felt Sunday services a necessity. So her Saturday walks were one more means of bringing valuable lessons to her students who might not be attending church.

  There were those few who had little patience with the biblical teaching. But it could also be said that, by and large, those individuals had little use for any teaching at all.

  “Can’t ’magine a boy his age goin’ off to school. When I was his age I drove a team of mules and put in sixty acres of crop each summer,” huffed one elderly man.

  “What do young gals need all thet book learnin’ fer?” scoffed another. “Don’t help none with makin’ a pot of stew or hoein’ a garden.”

  Ariana chose to ignore such remarks. But she often had to bite her tongue to keep from responding with a lecture.

  “If the West is ever to be civilized and prosperous,” she wanted to say, “we need people who are educated. Educated not just in book learning—but in moral living. That’s the only hope for taming the West and making it a place of fulfilled promise for future generations.”

  Ariana determined to do all she could to prepare her students for the future, whether or not every townsperson approved.

  “You have such pretty dresses.”

  The words were spoken with such wistfulness that Ariana almost felt like apologizing. She had chosen Chloe Travis, a seventh-grader, for her Saturday walk companion. The girl was sallow skinned and frail and came from a poor home on the edge of the town. Ariana supposed that the girl’s slight frame was due to the fact she never really had enough nutritious food. Her father seldom worked, and her mother sat in the shade of the front porch from sunup to sundown.

  “The poor woman must be ill,” Ariana’s mother had said with honest concern. “No one who is well would be content to sit and let the family do without.”

  Ariana secretly wondered if her mother was being generous. Now and then a pot of stew or a roasted chicken was sent to the home from the parsonage. There was little verbal response from the adults in the family, but the looks on the faces of the hungry children were enough thanks for the preacher’s wife.

  Ariana turned to the girl in the patched, faded frock. “My mama sews,” she said simply.

  “Wish my ma could sew,” the girl replied.

  “Perhaps if—” But Ariana was not allowed to finish.

  “Naw—she wouldn’t. Not even iffen she had a machine, she wouldn’t. She don’t like to do nothin’.”

  Ariana was tempted to gently correct the grammar, but in order to do so she would have needed to restate the girl’s comment. She couldn’t do that.

  “Yer really lucky,” went on the girl.

  “Yes,” said Ariana with deep feeling. “I am…really lucky…only…only I don’t see it as luck. I see it as—”

  She stopped. She had been about to say that it was because God was good to her. How could she say that? How could she claim that God loved and cared for her—and left Chloe struggling along in a family that did not even function? Ariana bit her lip.

  “Shall we sit down and rest for a little while?” she asked instead. “Mama sent along a little lunch.”

  The girl’s eyes lit up, and Ariana could see her tongue pass quickly over her upper lip.

  They found a place to sit, and Ariana brought out the cold beef sandwiches. She held one out to the young girl and watched as she hungrily devoured it. Ariana broke off a small piece of another sandwich and took a bite. She felt hungry too. The crisp fall air had a way of increasing one’s appetite. But she held herself in check. There would be plenty of food waiting for her when she returned to her home. Who knew when Chloe might get another meal?

  Ariana’s thoughts were on the previous conversation. She wished to say more to the young girl. Something that would make sense. Something that might give her reason for hope. Ariana hardly knew where to start.

  “You know, “ she said at last as she passed the rest of the sandwiches to Chloe, “you said I’m lucky—and I am. I have been…blessed. My parents are wonderful. I love them dearly. I have been blessed….”

  She let the words fade away as she thought on them. Then she turned again to the young girl and spoke. “It wasn’t—well, always so. Did you know that?”

  Ariana took a deep breath before she went on. “My parents—my birth parents—were…were killed in an Indian raid…when I was a baby. The whole wagon train of people were…killed.”

  Ariana saw the eyes of the young girl open wide with surprise—then horror.

  “What happened?” Chloe asked around the rest of the roast beef sandwich.

  “We were traveling west. For a new life. A new beginning. I…I don’t remember, of course. I was just…just a baby. But one night—for some reason—the Indians attacked. There had been trouble in the area. I don’t know what had happened. Some Indians had been killed. They blamed it on the scouts from the train. So they…they decided to get revenge.” She paused a moment.

  “Anyway, the people were killed,” she told the young girl. “All but me and Aunt Lucy.”

  “Who’s Aunt Lucy?” asked the young girl, her voice little more than a whisper.

  “Aunt Lucy was a…a dear old woman. Not really my aunt. And not really old, I guess, though she seemed old. She was a friend of my mama’s. I think of her as my second mama.” Ariana’s voice threatened to break. “She took care of me until I was five years old. I…I don’t know how she managed. She was crippled—from a fall and—”

  Ariana stopped again.

  “When the Indians attacked,” she was finally able to explain, “Aunt Lucy snatched me up and ran. There was a cliff—all rocks. Aunt Lucy bundled me close and jumped. Jumped right off the cliff. Both of her legs were broken. The Indians were so sure the fall would have killed us that they never even came down to check. Just looked over the edge, Aunt Lucy said, and pointed and shouted. Blood-curdling yells, Aunt Lucy said.

  “Then they…they finished their…their raid and set fire to the wagons. A storm was approaching and soon it was pouring rain. Some of the wagons didn’t even burn.

  “Later, Aunt Lucy heard someone come to the train. Local ranchers or maybe soldiers from the nearby garrison. She didn’t know. At first she was afraid it might be the Indians returning, but they spoke English. She heard them cursing as they looked at the…the carnage. She called and called until she was hoarse, but she was already weak and she couldn’t make them hear her.

  “For three days we lay there. It was hot. Aunt Lucy dipped water from a small puddle and gave me drinks from her cupped hand. She was sure I would die before help came.

  “On the third day a band of soldiers did come by. Aunt Lucy was able to make herself heard, and they came to us. They checked the wagon train. There were no other survivors, but they…they saved a few things that had been my mother’s. Aunt Lucy insisted that they bring them when they took us into town.

  “Gradually Aunt Lucy’s legs healed enough that she could struggle along with two canes. She never did regain her health—she had been hurt inside, too—but she cared for me for those five years. I don’t know how she managed to make enough pennies to keep us fed—though I do know that she often went without.

  “Aunt Lucy was getting weaker and weaker, and I often heard her praying—for me—that God would take care of me when she was gone. Then a miracle happened. At least, Aunt Lucy said it was a miracle. A preacher moved into the town. Aunt Lucy went to see him and he…he and his wife agreed to take me. They had no children of their own.”

  “The Bensons?” asked Chloe, her eyes large.

  “The Bensons,” nodded Ariana.

  “I thought they were your folks.”

  “They are—now,” smiled Ariana.

  “Where’s Aunt Lucy?”

  Ariana’s eyes filled with tears. “She died about two months after I went to the Bensons,” she said sof
tly.

  The young girl shook her head. “That’s pretty awful,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Ariana. “Yes—it was. For my folks—for all of the people on the wagon train. For Aunt Lucy. I’ve been the one who has been blessed—and I…I really don’t know why. Not yet. I hope to one day discover just why—why God chose to spare a baby. What does He have for me to do? I keep telling myself there must be a reason—and I think I’ve found it. I think it was so I could be a teacher. So I could help you—and others—to know—to really understand that God is real. That He cares about us—no matter what our circumstances.”

  Ariana laid her hand on the young girl’s faded sleeve. “He really does care, you know.”

  Chloe stared into her face.

  “He loves you, Chloe,” Ariana said gently. “He knows all about you—and He loves you. Can you believe that?”

  The girl hesitated. She looked down at the limp dress, the shoes with holes in the toes. Then she looked back into the solemn blue eyes and nodded slowly.

  “May I walk ya home?”

  Ariana had just stepped out the church door. She looked up into the tense face of the tall young man who stood before her. It was not an attractive face. Willis Boyd was probably the last person she would have hoped to make such a request. His skin was blotchy with youthful acne, and his ears were much too big for the size of his head. Crooked teeth were stained from tobacco juice, and his hair looked like the only washing it ever received was when he was caught in the rain.

  Yet something about his pathetically hopeful look made her smile softly and swallow hard. How could she refuse him—just because of his appearance? It would be cruel. Especially since he had just recently been showing up at her father’s church.

  She was about to reply when someone brushed his way between them. Bernard Dikerson stood before her. He smiled and pushed back smooth dark hair with a well-groomed hand. Ariana couldn’t help noting the sharply creased trousers, the tailored suit jacket, and the natty cravat. Bernard Dikerson was the son of the local banker, newly arrived in the town. Every girl had her hat set for the banker’s son.

  Bernard said nothing—just gave the derby in his hand a slight tip with the flick of his wrist and jovially offered her his arm.

  Ariana prayed a quick and beseeching prayer—What should I do, Lord?—then lifted her eyes to survey both young men. Inwardly she struggled. I…I should befriend Willis. He’ll be so shamed if…everyone is looking our way…he’ll…he might not come to church again…yet…yet Bernard…

  Willis had stepped back, his face red with embarrassment. Bernard stood, arm still offered, a look of total confidence giving him a boyishly charming expression.

  Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, came the soft inner voice to Ariana.

  But I…I…this is an opportunity I’ve dreamed of, argued Ariana silently. If I…yet…

  Ariana cast another quick glance at the flushed Willis, then gave Bernard the benefit of a full smile.

  “I appreciate your kind offer, Mr. Dikerson,” she said as sweetly as she could, “and under other circumstances I would be honored to accept. But Mr. Boyd had already asked to escort me home. Perhaps another Sunday.”

  Ariana smiled again and moved to take the limp arm of Willis Boyd. He flushed again, this time with pleasure.

  O Lord, breathed Ariana as she walked away with her head held up in spite of her desire to lower it and cry, Bernard likely will never speak to me again after this….

  Trust…trust, came the silent words. Trust in the Lord with all thine heart and lean not unto thine own understanding….

  Ariana’s head lifted higher. She swallowed back tears of disappointment and turned to the eager young man beside her.

  “Have you had a good fall, Willis?” she inquired sociably, but she honestly found it hard to concentrate on his reply.

  Ariana and her students worked hard to prepare for the school Christmas program. It was a great success, and even some townspeople without any children in the school came and enjoyed the singing and recitations. The following week Ariana was heavily involved in another program held in the little church. She was relieved when both events were over. Now she would be able to relax and focus wholly on her family’s celebration of Christmas.

  That evening she was turning from the church door, supposing that all had gone on home except her father, who still lingered to care for last-minute cleanup, when a voice spoke softly from the shadows. “Would now be a convenient time for me to ask to accompany you home, Miss Benson?”

  Bernard Dikerson stepped into the light of the winter’s moon and looked up to where she stood on the step. Ariana’s breath caught in her throat. Bernard Dikerson had made no further approach since the incident a full two months earlier.

  Ariana swallowed and nodded her head slowly. Then fearing that he could not see her nonverbal agreement, she forced the words through trembling lips. “Yes…yes, I guess so.”

  “Splendid,” he said with enthusiasm, and moved forward to offer his arm.

  Still tongue-tied, Ariana stepped down to accept his invitation.

  “I do hope you haven’t judged my silence as disinterest,” he began as they walked together.

  “I…I really…” Ariana stammered, but she didn’t know what to say. She had thought about it—she could not deny it. She had wondered. She had felt disappointment. How could she respond without admitting more than she wished to?

  “I know how busy you’ve been with the two Christmas programs—which both were delightful, if I might express my humble opinion,” Bernard said. He chuckled softly.

  Ariana smiled to herself. Somehow she couldn’t imagine him having a humble opinion—about any subject. But he did sound genuinely interested in spite of the formal words.

  “So I thought I should try to be patient. But I have been watching you—with admiration.”

  Ariana tilted her head slightly so she might catch a glimpse of his face. He did sound sincere. It made the breath catch in her throat.

  “Now that your busyness is over—I do hope you will have some time for…for…some pleasantness. Work with no play can—”

  “Oh, but I love teaching,” Ariana interrupted.

  She felt his hand move to press her fingers that rested on his arm. “Of that I am convinced,” he said, smiling down at her easily. “But perhaps it is time for you to discover a…a few other loves.”

  Ariana was puzzled and had no idea what he might mean by such a remark.

  They reached the walk leading to the door of the parsonage. He stopped and Ariana was forced to pause beside him since he still held her hand firmly.

  “Will you—would you like to come in?” she asked, though she felt uncertain about her offer.

  “Not tonight. It’s late—and you must be very tired. But I will be in touch. Soon.”

  He emphasized the last word. Ariana’s breath caught in her throat again. He released her hand and tipped his hat.

  “Good-night, Miss Benson,” he said, very properly.

  “Good-night…Mr. Dikerson,” replied Ariana.

  As she mounted the steps of the front porch, she felt the whole world spinning at a delightful pace.

  “When?” asked Sam as he sat with his boss at the wooden table.

  “Next big snowstorm,” came the gruff reply.

  “Storm? You outta yer mind? Ain’t a body in his right mind thet’d ride out in a snowstorm. Ya know what storms can be like in these parts.”

  “I do. An’ thet’s why we’re choosin’ one. No way we’re gonna be tracked nowhere in a snowstorm.”

  “Well, thet all depends. A light snow an’ they can track ya right on in here like ya laid it out fer ’em.”

  “We won’t pick a light snow.”

  “An’ how ya gonna know ’head o’ time whether it’s gonna be heavy or light?” snorted Sam. But he knew it was almost uncanny how the boss could read storms.

  “I kin tell.”

  Sam snorted again. �
�Sounds risky to me. Body can freeze to death in them storms.”

  “We’ve been in storms before and we ain’t freezed yet.”

  “What ya mean, we? I ain’t goin’ out in no winter storm, I tell ya. Not me. Not fer—nobody.”

  The flickering light from the open fire cast eerie shadows across the dark face of the bigger man, making the scowl more pronounced, the dark eyes more menacing. “If I say ya ride—ya ride,” he growled. “Nobody made you boss—yet.”

  Curses followed as each man expressed his anger in dark words.

  “Who’s goin’?” Sam finally asked, conceding the fact that he would ride if the boss said ride.

  “Jest you and me.”

  “Jest…. Thet’s plumb foolhardy. Two ain’t enough to even—we’ll die in the storm fer sure. Not to mention the girl. She’ll never make it—an’ she’ll keep us from makin’ it, too.”

  “Quit yer squawkin’,” the big man barked. “You ain’t gonna die before yer time. Iffen yer number’s up—then it’s up.”

  “But I sure don’t plan on helpin’ it out in a snowstorm,” Sam argued once more.

  “Better than a shot in the back.”

  “Maybe not. Least a shot in the back would be faster.”

  Sam moved to throw another log on the fire, sending sparks flying up the smokey chimney.

  “Next storm,” Will repeated. “You be ready to ride tomorrow. We’re gonna move in closer and take thet ole trapper’s cabin down by the river. We’ll work out from there.”

  “Thet’s Injun country,” interjected Sam.

  Will placed his whiskey bottle on the table while he spit and swore at the mention of the tribe that made their home in the valley. Then he took another long draught of the fiery liquid.

  “Be ready to ride tomorrow,” he barked. “I got it all worked out. Yer sure about the girl?”

  Sam nodded. “She’ll be there,” he answered slowly.

  Will lifted the whiskey bottle to his lips again. But when he discovered it was already empty, he flung the bottle angrily into the corner, scattering shards of broken glass about the cabin.