she was just a child.
But after her mother died, her father said educating a woman was a waste. After all, he’d said, what more does a woman need to know than how to clean and cook and sew? She didn’t need to be able to read to take care of a man.
That was about all Annie needed to know. As her father drank and gambled more, she’d had to work to support them. Only seven years old, she started cleaning houses. If she didn’t earn enough for his whiskey, he beat her until she learned to leave the money on the porch and sleep outside.
Then he’d killed a man in a drunken rage, was hanged and the house was sold to satisfy his debts. When no one would hire George MacAllister’s daughter, she realized she had two choices: starve to death or become a prostitute. She chose to work at Ruby’s, a brothel.
She brought her attention back to the book. Wouldn’t it be marvelous to learn? To read books about distant places and exciting people and thrilling adventures, to be able to read aloud to children or silently to herself, to write letters or a story?
Oh, it sounded more wonderful than any fantasy…but that was all it was. Soon, very soon, the school board would find out she couldn’t read or write and nothing would save her. From what she’d seen, she didn’t believe Mr. Sullivan would be kind or forgiving when he found out about her deception.
“Excuse me,” came a sweet voice from outside as the door opened.
“Yes?” Annie turned to look down on a tiny, fairy-like creature with a heavy basket. Behind the child stood a Mexican man. She straightened and walked toward the little girl.
Light hair curled from beneath the hood of the child’s green plaid coat. She looked up at Annie with enormous, intelligent blue eyes and a smile that sparkled with humor.
“Good morning, Miss Cunningham. I’m Elizabeth Sullivan. This is Ramon Ortiz.”
The child struggled across the threshold, carrying an enormous basket. Annie would have taken it from her, but Mr. Ortiz caught her eye and shook his head, smiling.
Elizabeth dropped her burden by the door to the kitchen. “My father sent us with some things for you. He thought you might be hungry. And we brought you a blanket because the nights are cold.”
Annie hadn’t noticed the cold the night before because she’d been exhausted. How lovely to have a blanket. “Thank you.”
Mr. Ortiz followed Elizabeth and placed a bundle on one of the narrow tables.
“How old are you, Elizabeth?” Annie settled on a bench so she and Elizabeth would be face-to-face.
“I’m almost eight, Miss Cunningham.”
“What do you like most about school?”
“Reading. I love to read. And to write.”
Of course the daughter of the man who hired her would love to do the things Annie couldn’t. “Do you like to do sums?”
Elizabeth grimaced. “No, ma’am, but I will try. My father says women should be able to add and subtract.”
“Of course we should.” That was one thing she could do, thanks to keeping track of how much the men who frequented the brothel owed. That and her piano playing had made her popular with the other women there.
The little girl marched into Annie’s bedroom to spread the blanket on her bed, tugging on it to make sure it hung squarely. She stopped to brush a little dust from the dresser and pushed the outside door more firmly shut. The child acted with such grace and helpfulness, as if she were an adult, that Annie smiled.
“I asked Ramon to place the food in your cupboard.” Elizabeth frowned as she looked around the tiny bedroom. “I don’t know why you couldn’t have curtains or a pretty quilt.”
“Thank you, but please don’t worry about it, Elizabeth. This is the nicest room I’ve ever had.”
Elizabeth’s eyes grew round, but she was too polite to ask Annie how that could be. “My father and I hope you’ll enjoy Trail’s End. All the students are excited to meet you tomorrow. Most of us like school a great deal.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth. I look forward to meeting them.” Annie walked into the classroom. “Would you tell me something about each student?” She congratulated herself on sounding so much like a teacher—or at least like her concept of a teacher.
The child stopped to think a moment before she started counting off the students on her fingers. “There are the Sundholm twins, Bertha and Clara. They’re only six so just babies. This is their first year in school. Tommy Tripp and I are in the second grade. We can both read and are learning cursive. Do you have a nice hand, Miss Cunningham?”
Annie looked down at her fingers. They were long and thin but covered with calluses from hard work and cuts from the accident. Her palms were red and rough. Why had the child asked if she had a nice hand? And what was cursive? What did it have to do with her hands?
When Annie didn’t answer, Elizabeth continued, “Rose Tripp and Samuel Johnson and Frederick Meyer are in fourth grade. The Bryan brothers are all much older but still in the fifth reader because they miss a lot of school to help their father on the farm. There are three of them, but you won’t see much of Wilber because he’s almost sixteen and really strong. Martha Norton and Ida Johnson are in seventh grade. They know everything.” She stopped and thought, her head tilted. “I could make you a list if that would help.”
“I can tell you’ll be a great help to me.”
“Doña Elizabeth, I’ve finished putting the food away.” Mr. Ortiz came into the schoolroom, carrying the empty basket. His voice was soft and respectful with a lovely lilt to it.
“Thank you, Mr. Ortiz,” Annie said.
“I’m Ramon, Señorita Cunningham.” He bowed his head. “Mr. Sullivan said he told you in his letters that each family contributes a wagonload of wood once each term. They stack it in the shed behind the schoolhouse.” He nodded his head in that direction. “Mr. Sullivan sent me with a load so you’ll have some when you need it. And I put a small pile next to the stove.”
“Thank you, again.”
“The shed’s where students who ride put their saddles. They tie their horses on the rail outside it,” Elizabeth explained as she moved toward the door. “Please excuse me. My father expects me home right away.” She started out before she turned to say, “Oh, and we’ll bring you a loaf of bread every week from our cook.” She smiled. “I’m so excited about school tomorrow. It’s been a long time since we had a teacher.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth. See you tomorrow.”
When they left, Annie entered the kitchen, ravenous. On the table lay a can opener. She opened one cupboard to discover it filled with tins, dried meat and a loaf of bread. A lower cabinet held a sack of oatmeal and another of potatoes. In the other cabinet were two plates, three glasses, a cup, knife, fork and spoon plus some bowls. What luxury!
The crickets and dried fruit were gone.
She felt incredibly fortunate, blessed with an abundance of belongings and a feeling of freedom, even though she knew it would last only a short while—a
