Harmony (31 page)

So he'd been doing some thinking, mostly while staring at his botched ledger sheets. Edwina had studied accounting. She said she was a crack shot at it. She could show him how it was done. She could make him book smart like the others. And in the process, he could spend some time alone with her.

He'd asked her out for dinner this past week; she'd declined. He'd offered to hire a rig and take her for a ride; she'd declined. From the expression on her face, he sensed she wanted to go. Why she said no, he couldn't fathom—unless she was still convinced he wouldn't like her if he got to know her. That was a bunch of bull.

Sitting at the store's counter and tilting the stool on its back legs, Tom watched the snow float in the sky while he waited for Calhoon to deliver the mail. When he did, Edwina would run out to the box and find a surprise waiting for her.

The door opened and a customer came in, full of talk about the weather. For the next few hours, Tom busied himself waiting on the flow of men bustling in and out, standing at the heater drinking hot cider and smoking while talking the latest traps with them. By the day's end as he restocked the corner woodpile for the stove, he'd forgotten about his plan until Edwina came inside, bundled up for her walk home, the cat basket hooked through her arm and a note in her gloved hand.

He straightened, clapping the moss and splinters from his hands. Walking toward her, he said, “Hey, Ed.”

She gave him a smile that shot through his heart; then she began to read the unfolded paper: “Required: the services of an accredited accountant. Pay flexible. If interested, apply in person.” Looking up, her tapered brows arched. “I take it this is from you.”

“Yeah, it was from me.” Shoving aside the clutter, he leaned his elbows on the countertop. “So, what do you say? Think you can save my books from ruin?” He stared hopefully at her.

Snow that had fallen on her hat had begun to melt and droplets shimmered in the puffy cluster of flowers and ribbons. The short straw brim was a forest green and brought out the color of her eyes. Loose curls escaped from her upswept hair to tickle her ears, which were decorated with a pair of gold drop earrings that looked to him like acorns.

Her teeth caught her full lower lip. She took a pondering bite of the flesh, then nodded. “All right. Why don't you give me everything you have and I'll take a look at it tonight. I can promise you my rates will be reasonable.”

“No, Ed.” At his refusal, she tilted her head. “I want you as my bookkeeper, but I want you to show me how you do it. The math and all.”

She gazed at him a long moment. The cat moved in the basket, and she gave the lid a tap and soothed the feline with her voice. “But I think you could do better if you had a schoolteacher and schoolbooks to show you math.”

“We went through this before. I'm not going back to school. I never will. It's either you or I'll forget it.”

Her sigh sounded soft and sweet to him. “It's commendable that you want to learn, and I'm flattered you want me to help you. It's just that . . .”

“What?”

“That,” she began with a lick of her lips, “what you're asking would take a lot of time. We'd be alone together a great deal in the evenings. People might talk.”

“Let them.”

“You might not care about your reputation, but a woman has to—”

“To what? Watch her every move even if it's innocent?” In a jerky motion, he pitched the now-mechanical tail of his zebra clock beneath the counter. “For crying out loud, Edwina, you act as if my proposition is illicit.”

He'd gotten her. Color had risen up her neck. “Where do you propose these lessons take place?”

“Wherever you're most comfortable,” he replied without a breath. “At the store here or in your classroom.”

“My classroom would be more convenient. A desk is better for you to sit at. Posture and correct breathing go with learning.”

“Good. I'll get my pencils and ledgers.” He'd slipped off the stool and was in midgrab for the books when her voice cut through the room.

“Right now?” she exclaimed. “I didn't think . . .”

“Now's as good a time as any. I'm in the mood.”

She gazed at him, indecisiveness written in her eyes. “Marvel-Anne expects me home for dinner by six.”

“It's five now. You've got an hour.” Then on a whim, he added, “Teacher.”

With a squaring of her shoulders and a shake of her head, she declared, “You are the most persistent man.”

“Yeah. Because it always pays, Ed.” Then in a lower tone, “Always.”

•  •  •

Weeks later, Tom still didn't understand multiplication. He'd gotten through the addition and subtraction, the latter giving his patience a good run. For him, it wasn't a matter of reversing the addition like Edwina explained. He just couldn't see that adding backward was subtraction. But with a lot of effort, and counting beneath the desk on his fingers, he'd been able to add and subtract digits up to one hundred—that carrying-over part throwing him for a few days. Edwina told him thousands and ten thousands were the same, just a digit or two more.

“Have you finished?” Edwina's voice drifted to Tom.

He sat at the desk in front of hers where she'd been occupied with work of her own. The paper before him, aside from her neatly penned multiplication problems, remained blank.

Slouching down in his chair and stretching his long legs out, he grew angry with himself for not understanding. For saying he got it when she told him three times three equaled nine. Or four times eight equaled thirty-two. How was he supposed to resolve this when he couldn't grasp the concept? Couldn't make any headway out of it?

“No . . .” he mumbled with irritation. “I haven't finished.” His idea of learning math to spend time with her had been a foolish one. He should have come up with another way to get her alone, because his plan had one big flaw: he couldn't learn it. He never would. Some of what she told him made absolutely no sense. And in the process, it made him look more inept at numbers than before.

Edwina rose from her desk and came toward him. She sat in the vacant seat next to his at the long desk. The fragrance of roses clung to her skin. He breathed in and took her inside him. Being math illiterate did have its benefits.

“You haven't done any of them.” Her tone was patient, soft, and comforting.

As he looked down at the untouched sheet, humiliation gripped his belly. “I was thinking about them. In my head.”

“Tom.”

Reluctantly, he gazed at her. She had the prettiest eyes he'd ever seen. He could lose himself in the green . . . pretend he was in the middle of a forest where the civilized world didn't exist. Her hair was in a nimble bun today, the topknot sort of sagging after a long afternoon of class. Tendrils fingered the collar of a white shirtwaist with lace on it and pearly buttons, all in a neat, straight row. A silver filigree pin was anchored in the frothy bow at her throat. If he looked long enough at its base, he could watch her pulse.

“What? Are you giving up on me?” He couldn't keep the deflated tone from his words. He'd failed. They both knew it.

“Absolutely not,” she replied. “I wouldn't quit—only if you asked me to.” She laid her hands on the desktop and knit her fingers. “Are you asking me to?”

“Maybe I should. There doesn't seem to be much hope.”

“Of course there's hope.” She stood and went to her desk, gathered several sheets of paper, scissors, and a pen. “It's my fault you're struggling. I've been going about this the wrong way.” Taking the seat next to his, she began to cut up the paper into palm-sized pieces, then she wrote simple multiplication problems on them. With the answers. “Some people just can't understand the concept of multiplication. You're one of them. There's nothing wrong with that. For you, it will just mean memorizing your facts. I know you can do that.”

“But I won't understand what I'm memorizing.”

Stacking the papers, she held one up for him to read. “That doesn't matter. Read these aloud as I show them to you. Like this: One times one is one.” Her brows
slanted in a frown. “And sit up straight. You can't think properly when you're sliding out of your chair.”

It didn't matter how he positioned himself. Concentrating became a struggle when she sat close to him. The urge to caress her cheek, mesh his fingers with hers, was there. He shoved himself upward by the heels of his boots until he was in the chair the way she wanted him. Gazing at the paper, he repeated, “One times one is one.”

“Very good.” She put that paper behind the ones in her hand. “Next.”

“One times two is two,” he responded in a monotone. She should have given him a crayon instead of a pencil.

“Next.”

“One times three is three.”

This continued until he got up to one times ten. Then she cut up more paper and went to numbers timed by twos. Afterward, timed by threes. And so on. She didn't go past multiplications of fives, saying he'd had enough to remember for one afternoon. She gave him the papers and told him to study them. To repeat them aloud. To embed the numbers in his head so that when she showed him a problem without the solution, he could give her an answer in under five seconds.

At five minutes to six o'clock, she didn't begin putting on her outer wear as she had done in the past. A food hamper rested on her desk.

“Not going home for dinner?” he asked from his seat.

“I'm eating here. Marvel-Anne was under the weather, so I sent her home at noon. You can go, if you have to. I've got some things left to do.” A little nervously, she shuffled the notebooks in front of her. Her lashes shadowed her cheeks as she looked down, then raised her eyes level to his. “I have more than enough food if you'd like to stay and practice.”

The soft hiss of the heating stove surrounded them with a drowsy warmth. Outside, dusk had fallen. A few stars had come out, their light reflected from the snow that he'd shoveled in drifts at the school's walkway. If
he left now, he'd be going home to a cold room above a livery, a dinner alone. Only a fool would turn down the opportunity to dine with a pretty woman. And Tom was no fool.

“Sure, Ed. I'd like that.”

The shy smile on her mouth was reassuring. She'd wanted him to stay, but she didn't want to come out and ask. “Would you care to eat now?”

“If you want to.”

“All right.” She rummaged through the hamper and pulled out wax paper-wrapped sandwiches and small cloth-covered containers, then two plates. His brows rose. She'd planned this. He caught her eyes with his; she blushed lightly but said nothing. After she had the food laid out on the table, she invited him to join her. “Please help yourself. I have plenty.”

They ate in companionable silence. Honey Tiger, who'd been nosing around on the bookshelf, jumped down on Edwina's desk to beg, using a technique quite the opposite of Barkly's. The cat kneaded the desktop, then rolled on its back and pawed Edwina's hand. The thrum of its purr vibrated in the room. She gave her pet a morsel of cheese and a few soft strokes on the head.

When Tom finished his apple, he asked, “You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but what was in that big box that came for you today?”

Edwina pushed her own plate away and stood. “Oh, I don't mind telling you. Actually, I'll show you. The reason I'm staying late is to see if I can do it.” She went to the storeroom and dragged a box out about a square yard in diameter with the flaps on top already opened.

“Let me help you move that.”

“It's not heavy.”

But his hands had already pushed hers out of the way. The brief contact of her slender fingers against his brought a tightening to his chest. Ignoring the heat that worked over his skin, he lifted the package to where she directed. Standing back, he watched as she removed one
of a dozen tubular hoops that had a bell inside it. The thing reminded him of a large bicycle tire without the spokes.

“What's that?”

“The catalogue called it a bell hoop.” She shook the circle, then smiled at the jingle. “It's for balance.”

“Balancing what?” Tom leaned into the edge of her desk and folded his arms across his chest.

“Posture,” she said simply as if any bonehead would know. Then she put the hoop over her head and fit the back of it against her waist and held snugly to the edges. “I've already read the instructions. You're supposed to keep your chin level.” She did so. “Keep your back in uncompromising form. Straight.” She stacked herself up neat and tidy. Without moving her head, she said, “Oh. And I forgot one more thing. Hand me a book. That one on my desk. Not the fat one. The red book.”

Tom reached behind him and picked up a volume that read
Courtship, Love, and Matrimony.
Interesting. He stretched his hand out and gave it to her. She had to rest the hoop around her neck a moment to put the book—of all places—on her head. The tome promptly fell down. She frowned.

“My hair's in the way,” she said as if he knew why. She made adjustments, pulling pins out and shoving them back in at different places. Now the puffy lump of hair, a soft mahogany color in the lamplight that flickered above his head, drooped at her nape. With a confident air, she proceeded once more, settling the book on her head and slowly fitting the hoop back around her waist.

“There,” she exclaimed with satisfaction.

Tom didn't see the benefit to this. He'd rather slouch if the mood struck him. “That's good, Edwina.” He didn't want to hurt her feelings. “So how long do you have to stand like that?”

“This isn't all, silly,” she said, eyes forward and her nose cutely wrinkled with thoughtfulness. “Now I let go
of the hoop and keep it around my waist by moving my hips—”