Authors: Shirley Raye Redmond
Embarrassed suddenly by her own self-centeredness, Amanda's cheeks grew hot with shame. What was she thinking? Reaching for the long wooden spoon, she gave the soup a vicious stir. There was so much to be thankful for, and she'd better be mindful of the fact. Her family loved her and they'd never gone hungry. Amanda had her health and more than her share of good looks. Neither man had made a declaration of love, so why was she even contemplating marriage with either of them? Nate had told her he liked her â not loved her. Gil said friends should call each other by their first names. He'd used the word friends, not lovers. She was nothing more than a desperate spinster toying with decisions she was not compelled to make. At least, not yet.
"Make me patient, Lord," Amanda prayed aloud, her eyes closed. She gripped the edge of the sink. "I've waited so long. Help me wait a bit longer, and in the meantime, keep me busy."
Business was the best remedy for melancholy she could think of.
****
The next morning, after feeding Minnie, getting Rex off to school, and assuring herself that Ella would indeed be all right in her absence, Amanda slipped on her corduroy riding skirt and a short-waisted wool jacket. She saddled old Toby and rode into the village with Nate's money tucked inside the envelope with the letter from Las Cruces, which she had securely folded into the pocket of her thick jacket.
It was one of those perfect, crisp autumn days, the sort Amanda wished she could preserve in a jar to save for another time. Then, when the dreary, wind-chilled January days became unbearable, she could open the jar and release the perfect day with all its sparkling splendor. A sweet day, fizzing with sunshine, as delectable as a bottle of cold sarsaparilla.
Her heart beat a little faster as she rode by the schoolhouse. It was silly to imagine she'd see Gil standing outside. It was much too early for lunch recess. But as the windows were open a little, she could hear young voices inside droning in recitation. State capitals, perhaps, or even memorizing the Preamble to the Constitution. She was not close enough to distinguish the exact words. Amanda recalled Gil's obvious pride in his students' performances at the spelling bee and how he had some kind word for each of his pupils, not just Rex and Jerry, but even the surly Lancaster boy. Gil Gladney was such a good and caring teacher. The memory of the tender merriment in his eyes yesterday as he spoke with her filled Amanda with a comforting warmth. Such laughing eyes. Nate Phillips had merry eyes too. But Gil enjoyed laughing with her, while Nate was more likely to laugh at her. There was a difference.
Grateful she did not run into the nosey Beulah Johnson this time as she had done on her previous visit to the bank, Amanda conducted her sister's business with quick efficiency. She even made inquiries about the attorney's letter regarding her father's blacksmith business. The banker's helpful response provided her with much food for thought on her return trip back home.
As she neared Ella's house, she noted the spiral of smoke coming from the chimney. She also noticed an unfamiliar buckboard in front of the old shed. Bonita paced back and forth outside like a sentry. The dog acknowledged her arrival with a slow swish of her twisted tail.
"Hello, girl," Amanda greeted as she dismounted. No telltale blood and feathers around the animal's mouth, thank the Lord. "Who's in here today?" She guessed one or more of the workers from the excavation site had stopped by to stow more artifacts into the shed. The door was open, so Amanda stepped inside, pausing on the threshold to allow her eyes to adjust to the gentle gloom of the shed's interior.
"Ah, it's you, my dear Miss Dale. Good morning!" Nate's greeting reminded her of a warm caress. With his tousled, dark-gold hair and self-assured stance, he reminded Amanda of a storybook prince. So tall and handsome. He stretched out his hand, an inviting gesture. She remained where she was.
"Did you bring in another skeleton?" she asked, turning her attention to the canvas-covered relics resting on makeshift tables of planks and wooden sawhorses.
Nate allowed his hand to drop to his side. His boyish grin caused her heart to leap just a little. He took a step toward her, asking, "You're not going to squeak and swoon, are you?"
"Of course not," Amanda stated, indignant.
"Of course not," Nate repeated. "You're a good, sensible, young woman, aren't you?" His eyes twinkled.
Amanda didn't reply at first, uncertain if he was complimenting her or poking fun. With a thrust of her chin, she finally said, "I try to be." Her eyes were drawn to an open toolbox with a whiskbroom, paintbrush, and a trowel. She also noticed several bushel baskets filled with potsherds â all clean and sorted. Rex had been busy.
Nate followed her gaze. "Your nephew has been doing a fine job." He let his gaze rest upon her. Amanda experienced a tiny thrill of anticipation. What exactly she anticipated, she wasn't sure.
"Rex is a hard worker and a good boy," she said, with feeling.
"Indeed he is," Nate agreed. He held up a ledger in one hand and said, "I'm making an inventory of everything we've found so far. I will include it in my letter to the curator of the museum back in New York. I'm also planning to ship most of these relics back to him so his staff can process, catalog, and photograph each item. I think he'll be impressed â with me and the relics."
"Is that important?" she wanted to know.
"Certainly," Nate replied with a nod. "Archeology is a new study, one capable of capturing the public's imagination. I don't want to be just another well-read, well-traveled history scholar. I want to earn an international reputation."
"As what?" Amanda asked.
"As a famous archeologist, of course," he replied with impatience. "This discovery could be just the beginning for me. I'm grateful Gil put me onto it. When the museum curator back in New York sees these," he made a sweeping gesture, "I'm sure he will provide the funds for a more thorough excavation of the site next summer."
"How long will that take? To completely excavate the old settlement, I mean?" Amanda asked.
"I don't know," Nate admitted. "It will depend upon the funding for the project. It will take years, probably. We can only work in warm weather when the ground isn't frozen, of course. In fact, I'll soon be leaving. Will you miss me?"
Somewhat flustered by this unexpected question, Amanda ignored it. "Will you come back in the spring?"
Nate inclined his head. "Perhaps. I might ask for the job of heading up the excavation, and I think I'd get it. Orâ¦" he paused significantly, "I might return to Egypt or Greece. I might not come back to New Mexico territory at all. Perhaps I shall apply to join the staff at Pompeii in Italy. They are excavating the summer palace there. The frescoes are magnificent, I'm told. Did you know the city was buried by volcano ash centuries ago?"
"Sounds interesting," Amanda admitted.
"I could loan you a book with photographs," Nate offered, giving her a flicker of a smile.
"I'd enjoy that. I like reading."
"What else do you like, Miss Dale?" When he took a step toward her, Amanda skirted away from him, around the stack of woven mat remnants and a pile of ragged turkey feather blankets.
"Too many things to mention," she replied. "I need to get back to the house. My sister is expecting me."
"The dutiful and beautiful Miss Dale," he crooned.
Amanda hesitated. She knew she needed to return to the house. By now, Ella must surely be wondering where she was. But something held her there. Curiosity? Hope? Unfulfilled longing? What it was exactly, she couldn't say. She approached one of the covered skeletons. Drawing back the canvas sheeting, she braced herself for the gruesome sight of human remains. She surveyed the messy pile of disjointed bones and dried ligaments. Tufts of dark hair still clung to the skull. An unusual amulet rested on the decayed chest. She was not as repulsed as she had expected to be.
"Why, it's sad, isn't it?" she said in quiet, pensive voice. "I think Mr. Gladney suggested these might be the remains of a great chief. He was somebody important once, but we shall never even know his name. We don't know if he was a good man or an evil one. There is no one left to tell of his deeds or keep his memory alive."
"My dear Miss Dale, I believe you're a romantic," Nate said softly.
"No, I'm not," she insisted. "I was actually thinking of a Bible verse I memorized as a child. âThe grass withers and the flower fades.'" She paused, wondering if he would complete the well known verse from Isaiah. When he didn't, she said, "âBut the word of our God will stand forever.'"
"Yes⦠er⦠so they say." His tone was dismissive.
Surprised, Amanda asked, "Don't you read the Bible, Mr. Phillips?"
"I outgrew my need for God many years ago," he said giving her a condescending smile. "As you are determined to return to your domestic duties, I must return to my own. Pity." He arched a brow in a suggestive manner.
Disturbed, Amanda watched him open his ledger and make a few notes. She wasn't sure what bothered her the most: that Nate thought he had no need for God or that he so casually dared to admit it. With a heavy heart, she made her way to the open door and left him alone with his precious relics. As she did so, Ella's words came back to her: You'll know, Mandy. You'll know.
The next day, Gil stood on the front step of the schoolhouse, a fierce wind buffeting his body and tousling his hair. He had to squint to keep the swirling grit and dust from getting into his eyes. The sky to the west took on an ugly gray color. He didn't like the looks of it. Something fierce was blowing in, for sure. A forceful gust rattled the schoolhouse windows, and the towering old poplar trembled and seemed to whine with fear as wind blew through its long, skinny branches.
Gil felt restless and even a little worried. The pupils hadn't been able to concentrate all morning. During recess a blast of cold air had blown little Bunny Bergschneider to the ground â knocking her flat. Even the three horses, tied to the hitching post, seemed fidgety. He toyed with the idea of sending the youngsters home early. Even though it was only the middle of October, a blizzard could blow up.
He remembered all too well the deadly winter season of 1888. At the time, he was seventeen years old and lived in Indiana with his family. Winter seemed determined to linger forever during the year. Raging snowstorms plagued the middle portions of the United States, as far north as North and South Dakota and all the way south to Texas. In January, a blinding snowstorm had killed hundreds of people, many of them school children on their way home from school. He remembered reading about it in the newspaper â reporters had called it The School Children's Blizzard.
At the time, he thought such killer snowstorms only happened on the western prairies. But in March of the same year, a severe blizzard slammed New York City, bringing with it more than forty inches of snow and ferocious, deadly winds. The Brooklyn Bridge had been covered with ice. Telephone and telegraph wires froze and snapped. Heavy snow smothered the train tracks. The city became incapacitated. People died. Many bodies were not found until spring when the snow finally melted.
Gil remembered the papers reporting one tragedy after another. The event had made a strong impression on him at the time. Recalling those disturbing events now, he made his decision: he would send the children home at once. Perhaps he was being overly cautious, but as his mother would say, âBetter safe than sorry.'
He returned to the classroom. Running his hands through his disheveled hair, he announced, "Students, I'm dismissing school for the day. I want each of you to go straight home. Take your reading primers, your copybooks, and your arithmetic texts. You can work on your lessons at home today."
"There's a storm coming, I think," Sammy Hurtado spoke up.
"I think you're right," Gil agreed with a smile.
"Maybe we'll get snow," one of the other youngsters suggested.
"We just might," Gil replied. "Class is dismissed."
There was a noisy scramble for books, jackets, and empty lunch pails followed by the sound of children stomping down the steps as they left the schoolhouse. Gil stacked his books on the corner of his desk and erased the blackboard. With the wind this fierce, he expected Nate would dismiss the laborers at the excavation site for the rest of the day too. They certainly wouldn't be able to accomplish much with sand and dirt flying all over the place.
Gil made his way to his small living quarters, stoked the fire and put on a pot of coffee to boil. He sat down at the table to go over some American history notes, but found his scholarly thoughts kept straying to more amorous ones concerning Amanda Dale. Lately, the image of her sweet, smiling face had been keeping him up at night too. He'd become so distracted of late he had finally made up his mind to have a frank talk with her â a candid talk about his feelings and his financial circumstances â about everything.
Yesterday, Rex, in high spirits, had mentioned the great improvement in his mother's health. At the time, Gil had expressed his heartfelt wishes for Mrs. Stewart's complete recovery. It was good news indeed. But he feared one day soon, the boy would come tell him Amanda was making plans to return to her home in Las Cruces, miles away from Aztec. Gil couldn't bear the thought. She might walk out of his life forever. He loved her. He knew it now. He wanted to marry her. Even though they'd not shared many long conversations together, the ones they had enjoyed had been meaningful ones. Besides, he knew a lot about her because of her present circumstances. She was a kind woman, who had left her own home to selflessly care for her widowed sister and the fatherless Stewart children in their time of need.
How could he allow Amanda to leave without ever telling her exactly how he felt? He had to tell her â and soon. If she returned to Las Cruces after Mrs. Stewart made a full recovery, he might never see Amanda again. This agonizing thought cut him to his soul, like the thrusting twist of a sharp knife blade. Nearly every waking hour seemed consumed by thoughts or images of Amanda â her laugh, those melting brown eyes, her soft-spoken responses, and her resiliency in the midst of trouble. She wasn't merely a woman he could live with â she was the only woman he couldn't live without.