Calder Brand - Janet Dailey Page 0,88

questions.

“You know how steam looks when it comes out of the kettle on a cold morning? That’s what a cloud is made of.”

“They look soft, like you could bounce on them.”

Sarah smiled, her fingers plying the knitting needles. “If you tried to bounce on a cloud, you would fall right through, all the way to the ground.”

Sarah loved teaching her son—and she’d discovered that she loved teaching other children as well. Her tarnished reputation would never allow her to teach in a school. But she had found other ways—or they had found her.

Two years ago, she’d answered a knock. Instead of the patient she’d expected, she’d opened the door to a worried-looking couple standing on her porch. They’d looked familiar. But she couldn’t place them until she’d noticed the woman’s red hair. They were the parents of Ezra, the young boy who’d greeted her at the train station years ago—the boy who loved books.

Ezra’s health had taken a downturn, they’d told her. The doctor had ordered him to stay home and rest, which meant that he couldn’t go to school. Since they were hoping to prepare him for college, he was going to need a tutor to keep him up on his schoolwork. Ezra had insisted that Sarah—and only Sarah—be the one to teach him.

The family had paid Sarah fairly and allowed her to bring Blake when she went to their home. By the time Ezra was strong enough to go back to school—a matter of months—he was well ahead of his classmates in all subjects. As word got around, other parents, who had ambitions for their sons and daughters, were willing to overlook Sarah’s reputation and pay for her services as a part-time tutor.

The money didn’t amount to much. But it allowed her to stop taking in laundry and make some improvements on the old house. She’d been lucky, Sarah told herself. But now, looking at her son, she realized that she was going to need more than luck.

Blake was growing up fast, and she couldn’t keep him to herself forever. Soon he’d be old enough to go to school and be around other children.

And children could be brutal.

There was a horrible word, a cruel word, for children born to unmarried mothers. Blake had never been called a bastard. But it was bound to happen. Not just once, but again and again until the harsh truth threatened to destroy him.

There was only one way to keep that from happening—move away and start over someplace else where she could pass as a widow. But where could she go? How could she move, resettle, and survive with barely enough money to live on as it was?

The clouds had darkened. Blown by the rising wind, they were moving in fast. Lightning danced above the distant fields.

As the first drops began to fall, Blake and the dog moved up under the shelter of the porch. Sarah was about to take the chair and go back inside when a familiar buggy, with the top raised, pulled up to the gate.

“It’s the postman! He’s stopping here!” Blake jumped up and raced down the sidewalk, with the dog at his heels.

The postman leaned out of his buggy and handed the boy an envelope. “Here you are, young man,” he said. “Give this to your mother.”

Clucking to the horse, he turned the buggy around and headed back toward town, racing the storm.

Sarah took the envelope from her son. She didn’t get much mail. But she and Rusty had stayed in touch since his return to Montana—not close touch, just letters exchanged once or twice a year. Maybe this letter was from him.

But no—her name and address on the envelope were written in a graceful hand that Sarah had never seen before.

The rain was coming down hard now. Before opening the letter, she shooed Blake and the dog back into the house and followed them with the chair. Inside, she latched the screen door, worked a finger beneath the envelope flap and sat down to read the letter.

My dear Sarah,

It’s been a long time since we spoke. I don’t know if you’ll even remember me. But I’ve thought of you often. Rusty has told me a little about your situation—enough that I feel emboldened to contact you and make you an offer.

Here in this part of Montana, there are children growing up without any education except what they can learn from their parents. I and other women in the community have banded together to get a school built