Engaging the Competition (4 page)

And for some reason she believed he hated her. He'd assumed since he was a year her junior and incapable of doing the rough and tumble things that she could, she'd not have bothered to think of him at all after they were no longer in school together.

But now that he knew Charlie craved his appreciation, he'd be careful to mute his desire to prove himself. “Thank you for being willing to help me with my classes . . . and for the ride home.”

“That wasn't so hard now, was it?”

He couldn't really see her smile, but he could tell she was sporting one.

Something told him she'd sorely test his newfound ability to express his gratitude in the next couple weeks—especially if she gloated each and every time he did so—or make him wish he'd admitted to admiring her earlier. If he'd not waited until he was cooped up with her in a hole in the ground, August Whitaker might have had competition for her hand.

Of course, he was all wrong for Charlie. . . .

But was August Whitaker any better?

At the back of the classroom, Charlie sat near the two girls discussing the essay they'd been assigned in Harrison's Collegiate English class. How a really old poem Harrison had droned on about for an hour intrigued anyone was beyond her. Like most people, she'd expect a girl—if one even bothered with high school—to enroll in the Normal or the General courses since that's all that would be necessary for a girl to teach or help with the family business until she married. Did these two girls really intend to go to college?

More schooling? Charlie shook her head. Even if she couldn't ranch, she'd not spend her days sitting in a dusty room reading highfalutin' pieces of literature. Harrison seemed to know more about all these fancy words than she recalled about the plot of the last dime novel she'd read—which had been so long ago she couldn't remember much.

Of course, if she'd been a better reader, book learning might have been more interesting. But books weren't nearly as fun as shooting a can off a fence.

And no matter how much she studied, she'd never be as smart as these two girls.

“Are you all right, Miss Andrews?” Lydia, the pretty one with the light blue eyes and the delicate heart-shaped face, stared at her.

Charlie frowned. “Do I look ill?” She probably did; Harrison had just told her his glasses wouldn't arrive for two-and-a-half weeks. How could she tell August she needed to postpone the wedding date she'd insisted on without saying why? For some reason, she didn't think August would be keen on her helping Harrison for no pay—especially after the wedding.

“No, but you did sigh with gusto.” Lydia's lips wriggled with a suppressed smile.

“Listening to you two talk, I wish God had given me the smarts to actually be interested in this Virgil fellow's stories.” Charlie shrugged at the other girl, who looked worried. Beatrice wasn't as pretty as Lydia, but she was heaps prettier than Charlie and smarter than the both of them.

“Well, I'm actually not that smart. Not like Beatrice anyway.”

The redhead rolled her eyes. “Hush, Lydia. You're plenty smart.”

Lydia shook her head, her brown ringlets bouncing against her creamy neck—the girl probably hadn't ever been out in the sun. “Beatrice was born smart. I just work hard.”

The girl was delusional if she thought she wasn't smart, but if she really did have to work so hard . . . “Then why are you taking the hardest courses?”

Lydia shrugged. “I like a challenge.”

Charlie huffed. There were far more enjoyable challenges to be had.

“You should find something you enjoy reading, Miss An
drews.” Beatrice brushed back her wayward red hair. “One of my cousins loathed reading until he found
Gulliver's Travels
. Then he wouldn't stop. Sometimes you just have to find something to spark your fancy.”

The only reason Charlie had ever wanted to read was to impress Harrison, but that had been years ago. She looked over to where he sat huddled with a group of boys near the window. Well, it used to be a window, but now it was boarded up since the storm had blown a tree limb through it.

With his fingers steepled in front of his mouth as he listened to his students discussing whatever essay topic he'd given them, she recalled the times he'd helped her figure out what to write when her mind had blanked after being assigned a composition. It was hard enough being older than everyone in the class, but to have to rely on a younger boy's help to get a passable grade . . .

She'd once tried to memorize a poem he'd liked in grade school, but by the time she'd gotten halfway through, the Christmas program was over and she had to abandon the task to keep up with the rest of her schoolwork. She never understood why Daddy insisted she finish school when she was educated enough to help around the farm.

“So that's what sparks your fancy.” Beatrice giggled.

“What?”

Lydia tipped her head toward Harrison's group. “Him.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I don't blame you. Without his glasses, he's handsome.”

Charlie dropped her gaze to the quizzes she was supposed to be grading and straightened them. “I don't know what you're talking about. I'm an engaged woman.”

“Oh, that's too bad.”

“No it's not.” Beatrice elbowed Lydia. “Mr. Gray's still in
the running for
you
then.” Beatrice's eyes glittered and she leaned over
to whisper. “Lydia's a sucker for men who quote literature, and Mr. Gray can't be much older than us, right?”

Beatrice peeked over Lydia's shoulder but dropped her gaze the second Harrison looked their way—even though she must know he couldn't see past his hands without his glasses. “My brothers are probably his age,” she whispered to Lydia. “My own folks are eleven years apart.”

He was definitely within eleven years of them, close enough for husband material once they left school. The realization ruffled Charlie's feathers more than an engaged woman's feathers ought to be ruffled. It didn't matter if he married ten years younger or ten years older. Not at all.

“Who're you marrying, Miss Andrews?”

Charlie finished checking a quiz before answering. “August Whitaker.”

“Oh, the Whitakers.” Beatrice frowned. “They've got a kid in almost every class. Haven and Dawn are meaner than two boy bullies put together. My sister's scared of them though she's a head taller than both.”

Lydia scrunched her mouth. “Cash is often in my classes, and he's never been pleasant.” She glanced at Charlie. “But I'm sure they can't all be bad eggs.”

Charlie realized she was pinching the bridge of her nose and released it. She didn't know much about August, but he was definitely nicer than Royal. Not that she expected him to be her dream come true or anything. But what if she just hadn't ever seen the mean side of him before?

Lydia and Beatrice resumed discussing the role of dreams in
The Aeneid
, and Charlie tried to focus on grading the quizzes before the end of the period. However, her mind kept trying to
work through her marital choices again—as if she had more than one.

Well, of course, there was another choice—she could simply let go of her property—but she loved her mother too much to do so.

Too bad she'd been so proficient at annoying Royal in school. How was she supposed to know his pestering had been because he liked her and that annoying him back was interpreted as returned interest? And evidently he
still
liked her. Enough that, even though she'd flat-out refused his proposal last year, he thought stealing her
things and luring her ranch hands away would make her beg him to propose again.

Because bankrupting a woman was evidently how a bully attempts to win a woman's heart.

Charlie cringed at the hole she'd scratched in someone's paper by being too decisive at marking something wrong.

Of course, reporting Royal to the sheriff would be useless. The lawman was related to the family, and she had no real proof anyway. And though he could steal away her hired hands, he wouldn't be able to run off a husband. Though a jilted Royal might be meaner than a lovesick one.

But then she'd struck on a genius plan. His brother August, although big and seemingly slow, was smart enough to calculate the worth of her miles of river-bottom land and had accepted her proposal. And one positive thing about the mean bunch of Whitakers—they looked out for kin above all else. They'd not let one brother destroy another.

Marrying August meant she'd not lose the house her mother so desperately needed. Momma still made Daddy breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Still pulled his slippers from the bedroom closet and put them away at bedtime. Still bought him his cherry
tobacco. Thankfully the store owner thought Charlie was unwomanly enough to have a chewing habit.

The two times she'd tried to convince her mother Daddy was truly gone, she'd turned hysterical and quit eating for a week. Once Charlie gave in and started pretending her father was still alive—dirtying his old coffee mug, mussing his side of the bed—her mother started eating again.

She'd already lost her father—she couldn't bear having her mother trip headlong into insanity.

Harrison's hand patted her stack. “Are you done?”

She blinked and looked around at the empty classroom. She still had several more to finish—how long had she stared off into space trying to convince herself she was doing the right thing?

He must think her totally incompetent. The quizzes shouldn't have taken her more than ten minutes. “No. I got lost in thought, but I'll hurry.”

She shouldn't spend any more time alone with Harrison than necessary. August might get jealous.

Oh, why did Harrison visit the farm last Sunday? And why was he as nice and kind as she remembered—well, before she outshot him anyway. No wonder Lydia had a crush on their teacher. He was patient and helpful and, as they said, quite gorgeous.

Cash Whitaker.

Wait.
She stopped writing the grade atop the paper and looked at the student's name again. “You have a Whitaker in this class?”

“Cash?”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes, hoping she was grading some other teacher's quizzes.

“He sits by the second window.”

She finished writing Cash's ninety percent score and flipped the page over. No reason to panic. Cash likely cared little about the identity of his teacher's temporary assistant.

“Ugh.” She pressed a hand against her stomach. She couldn't ruin things with August. She had to keep her mother sane.

“What's wrong?”

“Just school.” She rushed through the next student's ten questions. “I don't see any reason why someone would go through more schooling than necessary.”

“So I take it you didn't enjoy my lecture on
The Aeneid
?”

“I didn't listen much, not worth storing in my brain.”

“You know.” He put his hands on his hips. “That's exactly why no man's ever asked for your hand.”

“Pardon?” How did hating on
The Aeneid
segue into men not finding her attractive? August probably didn't count since she'd waved a business deal under his nose to get him interested in her.

“On Sunday in the cellar, you said men never liked you because you could outdo them, but it's more that you're never willing to be outdone. If you think you'll be outdone in something, like understanding an epic poem like
The Aeneid
”—he picked the thick classroom text off a nearby desk and held it out in his palm—“you either practice until you're better than everybody at it or declare it to be stupid and not worth anyone's time.”

“Maybe I'm just extreme in my likes and dislikes.”

“Then why avoid people who are better at things than you?”

“I don't. I talked to you all the time when it was clear I lacked your academic talent. But after I proved I was a better shot, you stopped talking to
me
.”

His jaw hardened and he stared off into space. Finally he sighed. “Maybe we're more alike than I thought.”

She raised her eyebrows. A man who could quote random Shakespeare lines in the middle of a lecture was not at all like a woman who wrestled calves in the mud for branding.

“Still, not many men want a wife who outdoes him at everything and declares his triumphs worthless. Take Lydia and Beatrice, for example. They're studying together for the end-of-the-year Knowledge Bee, though it's clear to everyone Beatrice is the one to beat. She's a bona fide genius. Lydia has no illusion that she can beat her, but they're true friends. She's helping Beatrice be the best she can be even if that means Lydia's sealing her own fate.”

“But no one helped me get better at stuff I liked to do besides my father. All my tomboy activities only made the girls hate me right along with the boys.” She flipped over another quiz. Too bad she'd gotten lost in thought and was still here for Harrison to pick apart.

“Nobody hated you, but like I said earlier, if people best you at anything, you avoid them, as if your inability to measure up to them makes you inferior. Why don't you have lady friends your age?”

“No lady I know of wants to spend time with me, ropin' and ridin'.”

“Then why don't you find something you can do with them?”

“I ain't about to do no sewin' and stitchin' either. Momma tried to get me interested in girly stuff for years. Never was thrilled with any of it.”

“What about the Ladies' Moral Society the Freewill Church is starting? You can't have anything against meeting to pray for the town.”

“I'll think about it.” She shrugged and started grading the last quiz. She didn't have time to win over girl friends when she was about to gain a husband. “My father never objected to my choice of hobbies. I don't know why everybody else does,” she muttered.

“It's not your choice of activities that rankle, but that you act as if you're unhappy unless you're better than everyone else at it.” Harrison flipped a pen through his fingers.

“Boys compete against each other all the time—they seem to have no trouble remaining friends.”

“Yes, but you don't just compete, you strut. Take some friendly marital advice. August won't take kindly to you showing him up all the time.”

“And you're qualified to hand out marriage advice, I'm sure.” With a flourish, she wrote the last grade and shoved the papers across the desk. “Sssss.” She winced with pain.

“What happened?”

She shook her hand and looked at her palm. “I gave myself a splinter.” She looked closer. “I think.”

“Let me see.”

“No, I'm fine. I can get a needle when I get home.”

He waved his hand in front of him impatiently. “Stubborn woman, let me have your hand.”