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By Mary Connealy
Barbour Publishing, Inc.Copyright © 2008 Mary Connealy
All rights reserved.
Mosqueros, Texas, 1867
The Five Horsemen of the Apocalypse rode in.
Late as usual.
Grace Calhoun was annoyed with their tardiness at the same time she wished they'd never come back from the noon recess.
They shoved their way into their desks, yelling and wrestling as if they were in a hurry. No doubt they were. They couldn't begin tormenting her until they sat down, now, could they?
Grace Calhoun clenched her jaw to stop herself from nagging. Early in the school year, she'd realized that her scolding amused them and, worse yet, inspired them. To think she'd begged their father to send his boys to school.
Her gaze locked on Mark Reeves. She knew that look. The glint in his eyes told her he was planning ... something ... awful.
Grace shuddered. Seven girls and fifteen boys in her school. Most were already working like industrious little angels.
The noise died down. Grace stood in front of the room and cleared her throat to buy time until her voice wouldn't shake. Normally she could handle them—or at least survive their antics. But she hadn't eaten today and it didn't look as though she'd eat soon.
"Sally, will you please open your book to page ten and read aloud for the class?"
"Yes, Miss Calhoun." With a sweet smile, six-year-old Sally McClellen, her Texas accent so strong Grace smiled, stood beside her desk and lifted the first grade reader.
Grace's heart swelled as the little girl read without hesitation, her blue eyes focused on the pages, her white-blond hair pulled back in a tidy braid. Most of her students were coming along well.
Grace folded her skeletal hands together with a prayer of thankfulness for the good and a prayer for courage for the bad. She added prayers for her little sisters, left behind in Chicago, supported with her meager teacher's salary.
A high-pitched squeak disrupted her prayerful search for peace. A quick glance caught only a too-innocent expression on Ike Reeves's face.
Mark's older brother Ike stared at the slate in front of him. Ike studying was as likely as Grace roping a longhorn bull, dragging him in here, and expecting the creature to start parsing sentences. There was no doubt about it. The Reeves boys were up to something.
She noticed a set of narrow shoulders quivering beside Mark. Luke Reeves, the youngest of the triplets—Mark, Luke, and John. All three crammed in one front-row desk built to hold two children. The number of students was growing faster than the number of desks.
She'd separated them, scolded, added extra pages to their assignments. She'd kept them in from recess and she'd kept them after school.
And, of course, she'd turned tattletale and complained to their father, repeatedly, to absolutely no avail. She'd survived the spring term with the Reeves twins, barely. The triplets weren't school age yet then. After the fall work was done, they came. All five of them. Like a plague of locusts, only with less charm.
The triplets were miniature versions of their older twin brothers, Abraham and Isaac. Their white-blond hair was as unruly as their behavior. They dressed in the next thing to rags. They were none too clean, and Grace had seen them gather for lunch around what seemed to be a bucket full of meat.
They had one tin bucket, and Abe, the oldest, would hand out what looked like cold beefsteak as the others sat beside him, apparently starved half to death, and eat with their bare hands until the bucket was empty.
Why didn't their father just strap a feed bag on their heads? What was that man thinking to feed his sons like this?
Easy question. Their father wasn't thinking at all.
He was as out of control as his sons. How many times had Grace talked to Daniel Reeves? The man had the intelligence of the average fence post, the personality of a wounded warthog, and the stubbornness of a flea-bitten mule. Grace silently apologized to all the animals she'd just insulted.
Grace noticed Sally standing awkwardly beside her desk, obviously finished.
"Well done, Sally." Grace could only hope she told the truth. The youngest of the three McClellen girls could have been waltzing for all Grace knew.
"Thank you, Miss Calhoun." Sally handed the book across the aisle to John Reeves.
The five-year-old stood and began reading, but every few words he had to stop. John was a good reader, so it wasn't the words tripping him up. Grace suspected he couldn't control his breathing for wanting to laugh.
The rowdy Reeves boys were showing her up as a failure. She needed this job, and to keep it she had to find a way to manage these little monsters.
She'd never spanked a student in her life. Can I do it? God, should I do it?
Agitated nearly to tears, Grace went to her chair and sat down.
"Aahhh!" She jumped to her feet.
All five Reeves boys erupted in laughter.
Grace turned around and saw the tack they'd put on her chair. Resisting the urge to rub her backside, she whirled to face the room.
Most of the boys were howling with laughter. Most of the girls looked annoyed on her behalf. Sally had a stubborn expression of loyalty on her face that would have warmed Grace's heart if she hadn't been pushed most of the way to madness.
Grace had been handling little girls all her life, but she knew nothing about boys.
Well, she was going to find out if a spanking would work. Slamming her fist onto her desk, she shouted, "I warned you boys, no more pranks. Abraham, Isaac, Mark, Luke, John, you get up here. You're going to be punished for this."
"We didn't do it!" The boys chorused their denials at the top of their lungs. She'd expected as much, but this time she wasn't going to let a lack of solid evidence sway her. She knew good and well who'd done this.
Driven by rage, Grace turned to get her ruler. Sick with the feeling of failure but not knowing what else to do, she jerked open the drawer in her teacher's desk.
A snake struck out at her. Screaming, Grace jumped back, tripped over her chair, and fell head over heels.
With a startled cry, Grace landed hard on her backside. She barely registered an alarming ripping sound as she bumped her head against the wall hard enough to see stars. Her skirt fell over her head, and her feet—held up by her chair—waved in the air. She shoved desperately at the flying gingham to cover herself decently. When her vision cleared, she looked up to see the snake, dangling down out of the drawer, drop onto her foot.
It disappeared under her skirt, and she felt it slither up her leg. Her scream could have peeled the whitewash off the wall.
Grace leapt to her feet. The chair got knocked aside, smashing into the wall. She stomped her leg, shrieking, the snake twisting and climbing past her knee. She felt it wriggling around her leg, climbing higher. She whacked at her skirt and danced around trying to shake the reptile loose.
The laughter grew louder. A glance told her all the children were out of the desks and running up and down the aisle.
One of the McClellen girls raced straight for her. Beth McClellen dashed to her side and dropped to her knees in front of Grace. The nine-year-old pushed Grace's skirt up and grabbed the snake.
Backing away before Grace accidentally kicked her, Beth said, "It's just a garter snake, ma'am. It won't hurt you none."
Heaving whimpers escaped with every panting breath. Grace's heart pounded until it seemed likely to escape her chest and run off on its own. Fighting for control of herself, she got the horrible noises she was making under control then smoothed her hair with unsteady hands. She stared at the little snake, twined around Beth's arm.
Beth's worried eyes were locked on Grace. The child wasn't sparing the snake a single glance. Because, of course, Beth and every other child in this room knew it was harmless. Grace knew it, too. But that didn't mean she wanted the slithery thing crawling up her leg!
"Th—ank—" Grace couldn't speak. She breathed like a winded horse, sides heaving, hands sunk in her hair. The laughing boys drowned out her words anyway.
Beth turned to the window, eased the wooden shutters open, and lowered the snake gently to the ground. The action gave Grace another few seconds to gather her scattered wits.
Trying again, she said, "Thank you, B-Beth. I'm not—not a-afraid of snakes."
The laughter grew louder. Mark Reeves fell out of his desk holding his stomach as his body shook with hilarity. The rest of the boys laughed harder.
Swallowing hard, Grace tried again to compose herself. "I was just startled. Thank you for helping me." Taking a step toward Beth, Grace rested one trembling hand on the young girl's arm. "Thank you very much, Beth."
Beth gave a tiny nod of her blond head, as if to encourage her and extend her deepest sympathy.
Grace turned to the rioting classroom—and her skirt fell off.
With a cry of alarm, Grace grabbed at her skirt.
The boys in the class started to whoop with laughter. Mark kicked his older brother Ike. Ike dived out of his chair onto Mark. They knocked the heavy two-seater student desk out of line. Every time they bumped into some other boy, their victim would jump into the fray.
Pulling her skirt back into place, she turned a blind eye to the chaos to deal with her clothes. Only now did she see that the tissue-thin fabric was shredded. A huge hole gaped halfway down the front. It was the only skirt she owned.
Beth, a natural caretaker, noticed and grabbed Grace's apron off a hook near the back wall.
Mandy McClellen rushed up along with Sally and all the other girls. Mandy spoke low so the rioting boys couldn't overhear. "This is your only dress, isn't it, Miss Calhoun?"
Grace nodded, fighting not to cry as the girls adjusted the apron strings around her waist to hold up her skirt. She'd patch it back together somehow, although she had no needle and thread, no money to buy them, and no idea how to use them.
Grace looked up to see the older Reeves boys making for the back of the schoolroom.
"Hold it right there." Mandy used a voice Grace envied.
The boys froze. They pivoted and looked at Mandy, as blond as her sisters and a close match in coloring to the Reeves, but obviously blessed with extraordinary power she could draw on when necessary. After the boys' initial surprise—and possibly fear—Grace saw the calculating expression come back over their faces.
"Every one of you," Mandy growled to frighten a hungry panther, "get back in your seats right now." She planted her hands on her hips and stared.
The whole classroom full of boys stared back. They hesitated, then at last, with sullen anger, caved before a will stronger than their own. Under Mandy's burning gaze, they returned to their seats. Grace's heart wilted as she tried to figure out how Mandy did it.
When the boys were finally settled, the eleven-year-old turned to Grace, her brow furrowed with worry. "I'm right sorry, Miss Calhoun," she whispered, "but you have to figure out how to manage 'em yourself. I can't do it for you."
Grace nodded. The child spoke the complete and utter truth.
The girls fussed over Grace, setting her chair upright and returning to her desk a book that had been knocked to the floor.
"Miss Calhoun?" Beth patted Grace's arm.
"Can I give you some advice?"
The little girl had pulled a snake out from under Grace's skirt. Grace would deny her nothing. "Of course."
"I think it's close enough to day's end that you ought to let everyone go home. You're too upset to handle this now. Come Monday morning you'll be calmer and not do something you'll regret."
"Or start something you can't finish," Sally added.
Grace knew the girls were right. Her temper boiled too near the surface. She was on the verge of a screaming fit and a bout of tears.
My dress! God, what am I going to do about it?
These boys! Dear, dear Lord God, what am I going to do about them?
She tried to listen for the still, small voice of God that had taken her through the darkest days of her life during her childhood in Chicago. He seemed to abandon her today. The good Lord had to know one of His children had never needed an answer more. But if God sent an answer, her fury drowned it out. She'd been putting off a showdown with these boys all term. It was time to deal with the problem once and for all.
Sally slipped her little hand into Grace's. "Boys are naughty."
Grace shared a look with Sally and had to force herself not to nod. Seven sweet little girls stood in a circle around her. Grace wanted to hug them all and then go after the boys with a broom, at least five of them. The other ten weren't so badly behaved. Except when inspired by the Reeves.
God had made boys and girls. He'd planned it. They were supposed to be this way. But how could a teacher stuff book learning in their heads when they wouldn't sit still or stop talking or quit wrestling?
Digging deep for composure, Grace said, "You girls return to your seats, please. And thank you for your help."
Beth shook her head frantically, obviously sensing Grace wasn't going to take her advice.
"It's all right, Beth. I've put this off too long as it is. And thank you again."
Beth's feet dragged as she followed her sisters and the other girls to her seat.
Grace waited as the room returned to relative quiet, except for the usual giggling and squirming of the Reeves boys.
Glancing between her chair seat and her open desk drawer, Grace was worried she might develop a nervous tic. She sat down but left the drawer open. An almost insane calm took over her body. "School is dismissed except for Abraham, Isaac, Mark, Luke, and John Reeves."
Forehead furrowed over her blond brows, Beth shook her head and gave a little "don't do it" wave.
Grace could tell by the way the sun shone in the west window that it was only a few minutes early for dismissal. Good. That gave her time to settle with these boys, and then she'd have it out with their father. Things were going to change around here!
The rest of the students, stealing frequent glances between her and the blond holy terrors in her midst, gathered up their coats and lunch pails and left the schoolhouse in almost total silence.
And that left Grace.
With the Five Horsemen of the Apocalypse.CHAPTER 2
Grace felt as if she were watching the second coming and hadn't repented.
Matching mutinous expressions settled on the Reeves' faces.
She said a prayer.
How do I reach them, Lord? Give me wisdom and patience.
Patience. She hunted through her mind for scripture about patience and remembered the long, cold years with Parrish. "But in all things approving ourselves as the ministers of God, in much patience, in afflictions, in necessities, in distresses."
That last part surely described her now. The Reeveses were an affliction. Getting through to them was a necessity. And her torn skirt alone qualified as sufficient distress, before she counted hunger and worry and a bruised backside. She needed to face all of that with patience.
She was fiercely determined to approve herself as a minister of God and bear whatever needed to be borne in order to reach these boys.
Exhausted, short of food, cold every night, and now wearing a ruined dress when she had none to replace it, Grace folded her hands in front of her.
With a sigh she felt all the way to her toes, she faced Mark. The ringleader. If she couldn't control him, she couldn't control any of them.
Her jaw clenched so her anger would not erupt in a tirade. "What do you think is the appropriate punishment for your actions today?"
Mark didn't even bother to feign an innocent expression. His look was far more reminiscent of "Try and punish me, teacher lady."
"We didn't do nothin', Miss Calhoun," he said. "I wonder who put that snake in your desk. That was a right mean thing to do."
A red-hot flash of temper nearly shocked Grace. She was surprised she was capable of this much rage. They always denied it. They didn't try to fake honesty. Instead, with smug disregard for any punishment she might mete out, they lied straight to her face.
"So on top of hurting me and disrupting class, you're also a liar—is that right, Mark? You can look me right in the eye and break a commandment?" Her voice rose with every word.
God, please give me patience. Please, I need a miracle to handle these boys.
Narrowing his eyes as if he didn't like being called a sinner, Mark didn't answer. He didn't mind being a sinner. Just don't dare call him one.
Excerpted from Calico Canyon by Mary Connealy. Copyright © 2008 Mary Connealy. Excerpted by permission of Barbour Publishing, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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