The Teacher's Mail Order Bride Read Free Page A

serving table, Rose sat down on the bench, seeing in her mind’s eye what she’d written on the chalkboard—Teacher: Miss Archer. Volunteering wouldn’t exactly be the same as teaching, but it might be a good place to start. She missed school, everything about it from the smell of the books, the feel of the chairs and the sound of the chalk on the board.
    Maybe she could do that as well as gather eggs and milk cows. Or maybe she could share those duties with her sisters. Her heart sank, though, as she remembered the biggest obstacle of all: her father, Beau Archer.

Chapter 4
    M ichael Tate hung his bowler hat on the peg by the front door of the schoolhouse and closed it behind him, leaning against it as he gazed at his new workplace. The floorboards had been recently polished, but beyond that, it looked like it could use some care and attention. He’d arrived just a week before, hoping for enough time before school started to fully prepare. This was his first job as a headmaster—granted, headmaster and teacher all in one—and his first job as a teacher out of his native Boston.
    He reached into his back pocket and pulled out an advertisement torn from a newspaper, one that had guided him almost completely across the country.
    Town of Tombstone seeking new headmaster for one-room schoolhouse. Salary discussed in correspondence. School begins in mid-September. Must have impeccable credentials and be of good moral character. School supplies provided.
    It wasn’t a very complete advertisement, he admitted to himself, but after having read about the boomtown of Tombstone in the Boston newspaper, he’d been intrigued and written away immediately for more information. Mrs. Samson, the head of the school committee, had responded immediately, describing Tombstone much differently than the rough-and-tumble, lawless town he’d read about.
    Even though it didn’t seem quite as exciting as he’d read, it was far away, in a completely different environment than where he’d grown up, the North End of Boston. He’d tried to describe the appeal of the surrounding cactus, the silver mine, the many people flocking to Tombstone to his parents, but had sighed at the blank stares he’d received. Blank stares in the beginning, that is—until his mother began to cry and beg him to reconsider, his father consoling her as she wailed. In the end, he’d agreed to a two-year contract and promised to return each summer, when school was out, to visit.
    He walked toward his desk, running his hands along the student desks lined up in between the door and the chalkboard in front. The number of desks was a bit intimidating, even for him, as the age groups were so varied—which meant their abilities would be, too. He let out a sigh of relief that Mrs. Samson earlier approved his request to seek volunteers, as well as approve the participation of Suzanne.
    He hadn’t yet cleaned the board and some chalk remained, he assumed from the previous teacher. He stood aside a bit, trying to make out the faintly written words, adjusting his tortoiseshell glasses, but he couldn’t make out anything more than an “A”.
    He turned back toward the desks, smiling at the thought that they would be full of students shortly, young people he could help open the world up to through books. That was where he found out everything he had learned—and he’d spent many an evening lost in one book or another. He glanced down at a familiar one, bound in red leather set on top of the first student desk. He hadn’t noticed it out of place before, but he knew exactly what book it was.
    He picked it up, holding it to his nose as he breathed deeply, inhaling his favorite scent. He’d spent hours upon hours in the Boston library, and if they’d bottled the scent of stacks of books, he’d have bought it. It was his favorite.
    He’d just set the book on his desk when the door opened behind him, the Widow Samson bustling in. The ice cream social had ended over an hour